BACK  COUNTRY  POEMS 


WALTER  FOSS. 


ifornia 

Dnal 

ity 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


Back  Country  Poems 


BY 


SAM    WALTER    FOSS 


ILLUSTRATED 


1892 

THE  POTTER  PUBLISHING  CO. 

IJoston,   Mass. 


TO  ALL  men  and  women  who  are  for 
tunate  enough  to  live  back  in  the  country, 
these  "Back  Country  Poems"  are  dedi 
cated  by 

THE  AUTHOR. 


Copyright,   1892,  by  Potter  Publishing  Co. 


ps 


626035 


'Tis  not  the  greatest  singer, 

Who  tries  the  loftiest  themes, 
He  is  the  true  joy  bringer, 

Who  tells  his  simplest  dreams. 
He  is  the  greatest  poet, 

Who  will  renounce  all  art, 
And  take  his  heart  and  sJww  it 

rfo  every  other  heart ; 
Who  writes  no  learned  riddle, 

Jhit  sings  his  simplest  rune, 
Takes  his  heart  strings  for  a  Jiddle, 
And  plays  Jiis  easiest  tune. 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


DEDICATION          .....  4 

DEDICATORY  POEM       .......         6 

THE  VOLUNTEER  ORGANIST  .          .         .         .          .          -13 

THE  UNCANOONUC  MOUNTAINS      .         .         .         .         .16 

THE  RAILROAD  THROUGH  THE  FARM     .         .         .          .18 

THE  GRAVE  WITHIN  THE  GLEN    .         .          .          .          .20 

BOBOLINK  PHILOSOPHY.          .          .         .          .          .          -23 

THE  TOLLBRIDGE  KEEPER    .          .          .          .          .          .        24 

THE  ROAD  TO  BOSTON         .          .          .          .          .          .26 

WEN  MELINDY  TOL'  ME  "YES."         .          .          .          .28 

NEW  YEAR  RIGHTEOUSNESS  .          .         .          .          .  30- 

THE  PATH  THROUGH  THE  WOOD  .  ,          .       32 

JIM'S  FUTURE      .         .          .          .          .         .          .          -34 

A  CHILD'S  QUESTION  .          .          .          .          .          .          -36 

PATHS         .  .  -37 

THE  MILKING  OF  THE  Cow          ...  -38 

MEMORIAL  DAY  ......  42 

THE  BURSTING  OF  THE  BOOM       .....       44 

THE  CARVEN  NAME     .          .          .          .          .          .          .46. 

THE  EASTER— MAIDEN'S  HYMN  OF  PRAISE      .         .         -55 
JOHN  BILLINGTON'S  JOURNEY         .  .          .       56 

SPRING  POTERY   .          .          .         .          .          .         .          -5s 

THE  AGE  OF  LIGHTNING       ......        59 

THE  FANCY— WORK  MAIDEN  .....       60 

BOSTON  AND  GLORY    .          .          .          .          .          .          .62 

THE  INVENTOR    ...  ....       63 

THE  AUCTIONEER'S  GIFT       ......       64 

THE  AGRICULTURAL  EDITOR'S   POEM  .       68 


TABLE    OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

THE  QUESTION    .                  .         .  .  .  .  -70 

THE  DIPPER  AND  THE  SEA  .         ...  .  .  -72 

THE  WAY  TO  SLEEFTOWN     .         .  .  .  .  -74 

MY  ANARCHIST  BOARDER     .         .  .  .  .  .76 

THE  SONG  THAT  SILAS  SUNG         .  .  .  78 
THE  POET  AT  PLAY     .......       80 

THEY  DON'T  MAKE  CONNECTIONS  .  .  .  .82 

A  FATAL  DISEASE         .         .          .  .  .  .  .84 

THE  MEN  WHO  Miss  THE  TRAIN  ....       86 

THE  SONGS  OF  THE  CORN   .         .  .  .  .  .90 

THE  BROOK  BENEATH  THE  SNOW  .  .  .  -91 

No  HOPE  FOR  ENGLISH  LITERATURE  .  .  .  -93 
THE  OLD  MAN  SINGS  .......       94 

THE  TURNPIKE  ROAD  .         .         .  .  .  .  .96 

WHERE  THE  SUN  GOES  DOWN      .  .  .  .  .98 

•'  HULLO  ! "         .         .         .         .  .  .  .  .100 

Two  KINDS  OF  MEN  .         .         .  .  .  .  .104 

COLUMBUS  .         .         .         .         .  .  .  .  -105 

FATHER'S  JOURNEY       .         .         .  .  .  .  .106 

No  FOREIGNERS  NEED  APPLY       .  .  .  .  .no 

STAN'  UP  AN'  GIT  HIT        .         .  .  .  .  .in 

FAMILY  FINANCIERING  .         .         .  .  .  .  .112 

UNCLE  EBEN'S  CONSERVATISM       .  .  .  .  .114 

Two  FRIENDS      .         .         .         .  .  .  .116 

EMERSON  CORRECTED  .         .         .  .  .  .  .118 

THE  ELDER'S  SERMON          .         .  .  .  .  .120 

SHORTEM  SHY  AND  HERBERT  SPENCER  .  .  .  .122 

SOMETIME  ORUTHER     .         .         .  .  .  .  .125 

WAITING  FOR  THE  MAIL       .         .  .  .  .  .126 

PETER'S  QUESTIONS      .          .         .  .  .  .  .128 

THE  LAND  OF  THE  LEFT     .         .  .  .  .130 

THE  SILLICKMAN          .         .         .  .  .  -132 

THE  PIONEER      .         .         .         .  .  .  .  -     134 

WOODCHUCKING  .  1^-6 


TABLE    OF   CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

DlVORCK        .....  138 

AN  UNAMBITIOUS  MAN          .          .  .  .  .  .140 

THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN      .          .  .  .  .  .142 

A  FALL  FROM  GRACE          .         .  .  .  .  -145 

THE  TRUNDLE  BED  VALLEY          .  .  .  .  .147 

GOD-BE-GLORIFIED  JONES'  MORTGAGE  .  .  .148 

THE  QUARTETTE'S  ANTHEM  .          .  .  .  .  .150 

HE  WANTED  TO  KNOW        .          .  .  .  .  .152 

A  GREAT  CONTROVERSIALIST          .  .  .  .  -154 

THE  SPARE  ROOM        .         .         .  .  .  .  -156 

ENOCH  AND  GYRUS  AND  JERRY  AND  BEN  .  .  158 

THE  GOVERNOR'S  FATHER    .          .  .  .  .  .160 

INGIN  SUMMER    .         .         .         .  .  .  .  -163 

CHORES      .         .          .          .          .  .  .  .  .164 

TED  AND  TOM    .         .          .          .  .  .  .  .166 

THE  INKSTAND  BATTLE         .         .  .  .  .  .168 

SHE  TALKED        .         .         .         .  .  .  .  .170 

THE  RAIL  AROUND  THE  JAIL        .  .  .  .  .172 

THE  LAND  OF  GIT-THARE  .          .  .  .  .  174 

THE  CALF  ON  THE  LAWN    .          |  .  .  .  .176 

SHORTEM'S  QUESTION  .         .         .  .  .  .  .180 

TELLIN'  WHAT  THE  BABY  LID      .  .  .  .  .182 

HUSBAND  AND  HEATHEN      .         .  .  .  .  .184 

THE  RATTLE  OF  THE  DOLLAR       .  .  .  .  .186 

THE  LAND  OF  NEVERWAS     .          .  .  .  .  .      -.88 

A  PROSPEROUS  COUPLE         .         .  .  .  .  .190 

HE  CAME  TO  STAY      .         .          .  .  .  .  .191 

SEBASTIAN  MOREY'S  POEM    .          .  .  .  .  .192 

THE  SHAPE  OF  THE  SKULL  .          .  .  .  .  195 

THEY  SLANT  IN  THAT  DIRECTION  .  .  .  .196 

THE  HEAD  AND  THE  HEART         .  .  .  -19? 

THE  TARIFF  FIEND      .         .         .  .  .  .  .198 

THE  PRINCE'S  Bow  AND  ARROWS  .  .  .  .200 

DROP  YOUR  BUCKET  WHERE  You  ARE  202 


TABLE    OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

MATILDA'S  AND  NATURE'S  SPRING  CLEANING  .         .         .-204 
THE  MAN  WHO  BRINGS  UP  THE  REAR  END          .         .206 
WHEN  THE  LEAVES  TURN  RED    .         .         .         .         .208 

UNCLE  SETH  ON  THE  CZAR          .         .         .         .         .209 

THEN  AGIN  —  •    .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .210 

THE  VOICE          .         .         .         .         ,         .         .         .211 

No  SHOW  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .212 

THE  GLABBERGASTIKONIAK    .         .         .         .         .         .216 

SWEETS  FOR  THE  SWEET       .         .         .         .         .         .218 

No  BEGGARS  OR  PEDLERS  ALLOWED      .         .         .         .219 

POEMS  BY  SPECIALISTS          .         .         .         .         .         .220 

THINGS  THAT  DIDN'T  OCCUR        .         .         .         .         .225 

AN  ECONOMICAL  MAN  .  .  •  .  .  .226 
SHAKESPEARE'S  GHOST  TO  IGNATIUS  DONNELLY  .  .228 
HOT  WEATHER  PHILOSOPHY  .  .  .  .  .229 

LINES 230 

A  GLANCE  BEHIND  AND  AHEAD    .          .         .         .         -235 

Two  SONGS 237 

Two   PRAYERS     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         -238 

THE  BABY  KING  OF  SPAIN  ......     242 

WHEN  SHAKESPEARE  SLINGS  HIMSELF    ....     244 

THE  READY  MADE  MAN      .         .         .         .         .         .247 

WALT  WHITMAN  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         -249 

A  TRAGIC  END   .          .          .          .          .          .          .          -253 

THE  GRASSYALE   RAILROAD  ......     255 

THE  COSMIC   POEM      .         .         .         .         .         .         .257 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

PORTRAIT  OF  AUTHOR          ......         3 

THE  VOLUNTEER  ORGANIST  ..        .         .         .         .         .12 

THE  MILKING  OF  THE  Cow          .         .         .         .         -39 

THE  CARVEN  NAME     .         .         .         .         .         .         -47 

THE  AUCTIONEER'S  GIFT  •    .         .         .         .         .         -65 

THE  MEN  WHO  Miss  THF.  TRAIN          .         .         .         .87 

"  HULLO  "  ! 101 

THE  UNPARDONABLE  SIN      .         .         .         .         .         .143 

THE  CALF  ON  THE  LAWN    .         .         .         .         .         -177 

No  SHOW  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .213 

Two  PRAYERS     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         -239 

WALT  WHITMAN  ........     249 


BACK   COUNTRY   POEMS. 


THE    VOLUNTEER    ORGANIST. 

THE  gret  big  church  wuz  crowded  full  uv  broadcloth  an' 
uv  silk, 
An'  satins  rich  as  cream  thet  grows  on  our  ol'  brindle's 

milk  ; 
Shined   boots,  biled  shirts,   stiff  dickeys,  an'   stove-pipe    hats 

were  there, 

An'    doods    'ith   trouserloons    so   tight  they  couldn'  kneel  in 
prayer. 

The  elder  in  his  poolpit  high,  said,  as  he  slowly  riz  : 

"  Our  organist  is  kep'  to  hum,  laid  up  'ith  roomatiz, 

An'  as  we  hev  no  substitoot,  as  brother  Moore  ain't  here. 

Will  some  'un  in  the  congergation  be  so  kind  's  to  volunteer?  " 

An'  then  a   red-nosed,   drunken  tramp,  of   low-toned,   rowdy 

style, 

Give  an  interduct'ry  hiccup,  an'  then  staggered  up  the  aisle ; 
Then  thro'  the  holy  atmosphere  there  crep'  a  sense  er  sin, 
An'  thro'  thet  air  er  sanctity  the  odor  uv  ol'  gin. 


I4  THE    VOLUNTEER    ORGANIST. 

Then  Deacon  Purin'ton  he  yelled,  his  teeth  all  sot  on  edge  : 
"  This  man  purfanes  the  house  er  God  !  W'y,  this  is  sakerlege  !  " 
The   tramp   didn'   hear  a  word   he   said,   but    slouched    'ith 

stumblin'  feet, 
An'  sprawled  an'  staggered  up  the  steps,  an'  gained  the  organ 

seat. 

He  then  went  pawrin'  thro'  the  keys,  an'  soon  there  riz  a 

strain 

Thet  seemed  to  jest  bulge  out  the  heart,  an'  'lectrify  the  brain  ; 
An'  then  he  slapped  down  on  the  thing  'ith  hands  an'  head 

an'  knees,  — 
He  slam-dashed  his  hull  body  down  kerflop  upon  the  keys. 

The  organ  roared,  the  music  flood  went  sweepin'  high  an'  dry, 

It  swelled  into  the  rafters,  an'  bulged  out  into  the  sky, 

The  ol'  church  shook  an'  staggered,  an'  seemed  to  reel  an' 

sway, 
An'  the  elder  shouted  "  Glory  ! "  an'  I  yelled  out  "  Hooray  !  " 

An'  then  he  tried  a  tender  strain  thet  melted  in  our  ears, 
Thet  brought  up  blessed  memories  an'  drenched  'em  down 

'ith  tears ; 

An'  we  dreamed  uv  ol'  time  kitchens,  'ith  Tabby  on  the  mat, 
Uv  home  an'  luv  an'  baby  days,  an'  mother,  an'  all  that ! 

An'   then  he  struck   a  streak   uv  hope  —  a  song  from   souls 

forgiven  — 
Thet  burst  from  prison-bars  uv  sin,  an'  stormed  the  gates  uv 

heaven ; 
The   mornin'   stars    they    sung   together,  —  no  soul   wuz   left 

alone,  — 
We  felt  the  universe  wuz  safe,  an'  God  wuz  on  his  throne  ! 


THE    VOLUNTEER    ORGANIST. 


An'  then  a  wail  uv  deep  despair  an'  darkness  come  again, 
An'  long  black  crape  hung  on  the  doors  uv  all  the  homes  uv 

men ; 

No  luv,  no  light,  no  joy,  no  hope,  no  songs  uv  glad  delight,  — 
An'  then  the  tramp,  he  staggered  down  an'  reeled  into  the 

night ! 

But    we    knew   he'd  tol'  his    story,  though   he  never  spoke  a 

word, 

An'  it  wuz  the  saddest  story  thet  our  ears  bed  ever  heard ; 
He    hed    tol'    his    own    life     history,    an'    no    eye    wuz    dry 

thet  day, 
Wen  the  elder  rose  an'  simply  said  :   "  My  brethren,  let  us 

pray." 


THE    UNCANOONUC  MOUNTAINS. 

THEY  stood  there  in  the  distance,  mysterious  and  lone, 
Each  with  a  hazy  vapor  above  its  towering  dome  ; 
They  stood  like  barriers  between  the  unknown  and  the 

known, 

The  Uncanoonuc  Mountains  which  I  used  to  see  from  home. 
And  far  beyond  the  mountains,  I  was  told,  the  world  was  wide, 

And  in  fancy  on  the  thither  side  it  was  my  wont  to  roam  ; 
I  saw  the  glories  of  the  world  upon  the  other  side 

Of  the  Uncanoonuc   Mountains  which  I  used  to  see  from 
home. 

On  this  side  the  Uncanoonucs  was  an  old,  familiar  scene  ; 
But   they  were   burnished  pillars   on  which  rainbows   used 

to  rest ; 

On  this  side  the  Uncanoonucs  all  was  commonplace  and  mean  ; 
They  were  red  with  sunset  splendor  at  the  threshold  of  the 

West. 
They  were  Mountains  of  Enchantment  that  stood  guard  at 

the  frontier 
Of  the  Borderland  of  Mystery,  bathed  in  twilight's  crimson 

foam. 
And  I  longed  to  reach  their  summits,  and  pass  on  without 

a  fear, 

Through  the  Uncanoonuc  Mountains  which  I  used  to  see 
from  home. 

I  have  passed  the  Uncanoonucs,  and  have  travelled  far  away 
Through  the  Borderland  of  Mystery  upon  an  endless  quest  ; 

But  other  Uncanoonucs,  glimmering  in  the  twilight  gray, 
Still  lift  their  hazv  summits  at  the  threshold  of  the  West. 


THE    UNCANOONUC  MOUNTAINS. 


One  ''nisty  mountain  overpassed  upon  the  march  of  time, 
Another  summit  breaks  in  view,  and  onward  still  I  roam  — 

Another  mountain  in  the  mist  which  beckons  me  to  climb, 
Like  the  Uncanoonuc  Mountains  which  I  used  to  see  from 
home. 

Though  beyond  the  Uncanoonucs  all  the  glories  that  I  seek 

Fail  to  fashion  to  realities  before  my  wistful  eyes, 
I  still  will  chase  the  Vision — see  her  standing  on  the  peak 

Of  that  other  Uncanoonuc  towering  in  the  western  skies. 
I    grasp    my  mountain-climbing   staff —  there    yet    is    ample 

time  — 

For  some  other  Uncanoonuc  ever  lifts  its  distant  dome  — 
With  my  boyhood   faith   I'll  climb  it,  as   I   used   to  long  to 

climb 

The    Uncanoonuc    Mountains    which    I   used   to  see    from, 
home. 


THE   RAILROAD    THROUGH   THE   FARM. 

THERE'S  thet  black  abomernation,  thet  big  locomotive 
there, 

Its  smoke-tail  like  a  pirut  flag,  a-wavin'  through  the  air; 
An'  I  mus'  set,  twelve  times  a  day,  an'  never  raise  my  arm, 
An'  see   thet  gret  black   monster  go   a-snortin'  through  my 
farm. 

My  father's  farm,  my  grandsir's  farm,  —  I  come   of  Pilgrim 

stock  — 
My    great-great-great-great-grandsir's     farm,     way    back     to 

Plymouth  Rock ; 

Way  back  in  the  sixteen  hundreds  it  was  in  our  family  name, 
An'  no  man  dared  to  trespass  till  that  tootin'  railroad  came. 

I  sez,  -'-You  can't  go  through  this  farm,  you  hear  it  flat  an' 

plain  !  " 

An'  then  they  blabbed  about  the  right  of  "  eminunt  domain." 
"  Who's  Eminunt  Domain?  "  sez  I,  "  I  want  you  folks  to  see 
Thet  on  this  farm  there  ain't  no  man  so  eminunt  ez  me." 

An'  w'en  their  gangs  begun  to  dig  I  went  out  with  a  gun, 
An'  they  rushed  me  off  to   prison  till   their  wretched  work 

wuz  done. 

"  If  I  can't  purtect  my  farm,"  sez  I,  "  w'y,  then,  it's  my  idee 
You'd  better  shet  off  callin'  this  '  the  country  of  the  free.'  " 

There,  there,  ye  hear  it  toot  agin  an'  break  the  peaceful  calm. 
I  tell  ye,  you  black  monster,  you've  no  business  on  my  farm  ! 
An'  men  ride  by  in  stovepipe  hats,  an'  women  loll  in  silk, 
An',  lookin'  in  my  barnyard,  say,  "  See  thet  oF  codger  milk  !  " 


THE   RAILROAD    THROUGH    THE   FARM.  19 

Git  off  my  farm,  you  stuck-up  doods,  who  set  in  there  an'  grin, 
I  own  this  farm,  railroad  an'  all,  an'  I  will  fence  it  in  ! 
Ding-ding,  toot-toot,  you  black  oP  fiend,  you'll  find  w'en  you 

come  back, 
An  oP  rail   fence,  without   no  bars,  built  straight  across  the 

track. 

An'  then  you  stuck-up  doods  inside,  you  Pullman  upper  crust, 
Will  know  this  codger'll  hold  his  farm  an'  let  the  railroad 

bust. 
You'll  find  this  railroad  all  fenced  in  —  'twon't  do  no  good 

to  talk  — 
If  you  want  to  git  to  Boston,  w'y  jest  take  yer  laigs  an'  walk. 


THE    GRAVE    WITHIN  THE    GLEN. 

DOWN  in  a  wild  vine  tangled  glen 
Young  Herman  lived,  remote  from  men. 
The  silence  of  the  ancient  hills 
Kept  guard  around  the  lonely  vale, 
Unbroken  but  by  laughing  rills 

And  sad  songs  of  the  nightingale. 
Thus,  bright  with  morning's  crimson  glow, 

His  life  was  free  and  all  his  own, 
But,  like  a  brook  beneath  the  snow, 
Flowed  on  unnoted  and  unknown. 


Then  came  the  rainbow  dream  of  fame  — 

The  world's  applause  for  righted  wrongs, 
The  glory  of  a  sounding  name, 
A  grateful  nation's  loud  acclaim. 

•  And  mighty  poets'  plausive  songs. 
To  win  the  meed  of  human  praise 
He  vowed  to  dedicate  his  days — 

To  gain  the  cheers  of  listening  throngs, 
To  shine  the  victor  of  debate, 
To  shape  the  councils  of  the  state, 
Or  make  men  love  him  for  his  songs. 


He  climbed  the  valley's  beetling  walls 
To  seek  the  praise  of  foolish  men, 

And  left  the  rainbowed  waterfalls 
And  sunset  glories  of  the  Glen. 


THE    GRAVE    WITHIN   THE    GLEN. 


Young  Herman  found  the  way  was    long — 
No  poet  cheered  him  with  his  song, 
And  for  the  thunder  trump  of  fame, 
To  bruit  abroad  his  wide-flown  name, 
He  heard  the  hisses  of  the  throng, 
And  loud  and  bitter  jeers  of  shame. 

The  hoary  wrong  that  sapped  the  state, 
By  age  and  form  grown  venerate, 
Hurled  back  the  arrows  of  his  hate. 

The  creed  he  hunted  to  its  death, 
That  built  its  shrines  on  human  fears, 
Its  altars  wet  with  human  tears, 

Reviled  him  with  its  dying  breath. 
And  Error,  throned  in  regal  state, 

From  out  her  storehouse  of  the  past, 

At  him  in  wrathful  menace  cast 
Her  wealth  of  immemorial  hate. 


And  while  his  foot  was  on  her  neck, 
She  flung  at  him  her  poisoned  dart, 

The  bitter  name  that  rankles  sore  : 
He  wore  it,  bleeding,  in  his  heart,  — 
The  grand  old  name  of  heretic, 

That  all  the  martyrs  borj. 
Instead  of  words  of  human  praise 
To  cheer  and  light  his  stormy  days, 
Like  mists  from  off  a  stagnant  fen 
Came  curses  from  the  hearts  of  men. 
Then  deadlier  hate  from  hate  was  born, 
He  gave  his  mockers  scorn  for  scorn ; 
His  days  were  battles,  and  his  life 
Grew  weary  of  the  unequal  strife. 


THE    GRAVE    WITHIN   THE    GLEN. 


He  sought  his  mountain-guarded  glen 
To  die  in  peace,  remote  from  men ; 
And  through  the  gates  of  solitude, 
Where  death's  dark  shadows  overbrood, 
Leaving  his  purposed  work  unwrought, 
He  found  the  silence  that  he  sought. 

So,  while  the  mournful  nightingale 
Filled  with  her  dirge  the  solemn  vale, 
His  worn,  world-weary  form  found  rest 
In  the  deep  valley's  flowery  breast. 

But  the  stern  deeds  that  he  had  done 

Remained  and  worked  their  perfect  will  • 

And  time  was  faithful  to  fulfil 
The  work  he  purposed  'neath  the  sun ; 
And  the  lone  grave  within  the  Glen, 
Of  him  despised  and  feared  of  men, 
Became  the  shrine  of  saint  and  sage, 

The  patriot's  boast,  a  nation's  pride, 
The  goal  of  loving  pilgrimage, 

By  song  and  story  glorified. 

But  Fame  breathed  forth  her  votive  breath 
On  unresponsive  lips  of  death, 
The  chaplet  crown  of  laggard  Fate 
Pressed  on  the  pulseless  brow  too  late. 


I 


BOBOLINK  PHILOSOPHY. 

KNOW  a  deep  philosopher  who's  far  too  wise  to  thinkr 
That  bubbling,  breezy  blatherskite,  the  boisterous  bobo 
link. 


So  drunk  is  he  with  wine  of  joy,  so  music-mad  with  mirth, 
His  tipsy  carols  of  content  rejuvenate  the  earth. 

We  feel  the  orient  joy  of  life  with  which  our  world  began — 
'Tis  summer  in  the  earth  and  air  and  in  the  heart  of  man. 

From  what  deep  fount  of  flowing  joy  does  this  mad  minstrel 

drink, 
This  babbling,  breezy  blatherskite,  this  boisterous  bobolink? 

From    rounded   apple-blossom  cups  where  wild  bees  browse 

and  boom ; 
From  tiger-lily  beakers,  and  from  chalices  of  bloom  ; 

From    strawberry  goblets  filled  with  dew,  the  incense  of  the 

night, 
Caught  from  the  sky's  inverted  urn  embossed  with  starry  light. 

Forth  from  his  blossom  bed  he  leaps,  and,  laughingly  and  strong, 
All  up  and  down  the  ringing  earth  he  weaves  his  web  of  song, 

And  preaches  boldly  to  the  sad  the  folly  of  despair, 

And  tells  to  whom  it  may  concern  that  all  the  world  is  fair. 

And  to  my  heart  his  wisdom  finds  a  surer  welcome  home 
Than  some  that  has  been  sanctioned  by  the  sages  of  old  Rome. 

That  bubbling,  breezy  blatherskite,  the  boisterous  bobolink. 
Is  such  a  deep  philosopher,  he's  far  too  wise  to  think. 


I 


THE    TOLLBRIDGE   KEEPER. 

LIVE  here  by  my  tollbridge 
Content,  without  a  want,  — 
My  bridge,  that  joins  these  mighty  States, 

New  Hampshire  and  Vermont. 
The  big  Connecticut  below 

Among  its  piers  is  whirled ; 
I'm  acquainted  with  the  river 

That's  acquainted  with  the  world. 

For  it  goes  winding  on  and  on, 

Through  bowlders,  hills,  and  sand, 
A  crinkly  silver  watch  chain 

On  the  jacket  of  the  land. 
And,  though  I  live  here  all  alone 

Within  my  cottage  curled, 
I'm  acquainted  with  the  river 

That's  acquainted  with  the  world. 

Through  maple-sugar  orchards, 

And  through  the  fields  of  hay, 
And  down  through  the  tobacco  farms 

It  winds  upon  its  way ; 
And  it  sleeps  in  silent  meadows 

When  the  twilight  settles  down, 
Then  winds  its  cool,  soft  arm  around 

The  hot  brows  of  the  town. 

The  people  on  the  other  side, 

It  is  their  only  care 
To  cross  to  this,  while  people  here 

All  wish  to  cross  to  there ; 


THE    TOLLBRIDGE  KEEPER.  25 


And  after  pondering  long,   I   think 
That,  though  the  world  is  wide, 

I  am  the  only  man  on  earth 
Who's  wholly   satisfied. 

And  why  should  I  not  be  content? 

I  sit  here   evermore, 
While  all  the  world  to   humor  me 

Goes  riding  by  my  door. 
And  when  the  latest  wheel  at  night 

Across  the  bridge  is  whirled, 
I'm  acquainted  with  the  river 

That's  acquainted  with  the  world. 

"  Why  does  my  river  hurry  so  ? 

What  can  its  errand  be?" 
And   it  says,   "  I  hear  the  music, 

Hear  the  anthem  of  the  sea." 
"  Stay  and  talk  to  me  of  cities 

Where  the  many  thousands  be," 
But  it  says,   "  I   feel   the  magic 

Of  the  music  of  the  sea." 

Well  I  know  the   truth,   my  river, 

That  thou  sayest  unto  me, 
For  I,   too,   have  felt  the  magic 

Of  the  music  of  the  sea. 
Though  I   live  far  in  the  mountains, 

Still  the  Stream  of  Life  is  whirled 
Toward  the  mist-enshrouded  ocean 

That  encircles  all  the  world. 


THE   ROAD    TO   BOSTON. 

THE  little  road  goes  past  my  house,  goes  winding  like  a 
snake, 
Climbs   up  the   hills  of  hemlock,  and  winds  through 

swamps  of  brake, 

It  leaps  the  sweeping  river  and  climbs  the  mountain  height, 
Bends    down    into    the    valley,   and   goes   glimmering  out  of 
sight. 

But  there  are  travellers  tell  me  that  the  little  road  grows  wide, 
And  leads  through  many  villages  down  to  the  ocean  side, 
And  still  keeps  stretching  onward  —  they  have  followed  day 

by  day  — 
Until  it  reaches  Boston  town,  two  hundred  miles  away. 

And  this  little  road,  they  tell  me,  grows  to  Boston's  biggest 

street, 

All  lined  by  mighty  houses  tall  —  and  some  two  hundred  feet  — 
Where  monstrous  crowds  its  sidewalks  throng,  like  armies  on 

parade  ; 
Where  all  the   people  of  the  world  come  down  to  buy  and 

trade. 

My  boys  and  girls  when   they  grew  up,  they  felt  the  heavy 

load 
Of  this  quietude  and  dulness  —  and  they  travelled  down  the 

road, 
And  they  wound  across  the  rivers,  and  far  o'er  the  mountains- 


To  the  biggest  street  in  Boston,  two  hundred  miles  away. 


THE   ROAD    TO   BOSTOX.  27 


And  many  men  among  the  hills  hear  Boston's  distant  roar, 
For  the  biggest  street  in  Boston  passes  every  farmhouse  door, 
And    the    distant    roar    and    rumble    comes    like     magic    to 

the  ear, 
And  thousands  travel  down  the  road,  pass  on,  and  disappear. 

But  my  boys  they  write  from  Boston  that,  for  feet  that  waded 

through 

The  early  fields  of  clover  and  the  daisies  and  the  dew, 
The  stones  are  hard  and  cruel  there  on  Boston's  biggest  street, 
And  are  pressed  each  day  and  hour  by  a  horde  of  tired  feet. 

And  that  men  are  cold  and  selfish,  each  one  busy  v.'ith  his 

plan 

To  -limb  to  wealth  and  power  o'er  his  prostrate  fellow-man ; 
That  the  few  have  ease  and  comfort,  and  the  many  toil  and 

die, 
Shut  in  by  brick  and  granite  from  the  sunlight  and  the  sky. 

And  I  write  my  children  letters ;   tell  them  that  their  father 

still, 

Still  is  toiling  by  the  roadside  on  the  green  and  quiet  hill, 
And    to    come   away  from   Boston,  with   its   cruel   noise   and 

roar, 
For  the  biggest  street  in  Boston  passes  by  their  father's  door  ! 


WEN  MELINDY  TOL'    ME    "  YES". 


|"  EST  a  fortni't  from  my  fall-out  with  my  first  sweetheart, 
gj  Lucindy, 

Did  Melindy,  my  Melindy,  tell  me  "Yes"; 
And  the  atmosphere  was  windy,  way  from  Pokumville  to  Indy, 

Windy  with  the  breezy  music  of  etarnal  blessedness. 
An'  she   said  it  fair  an'  squarely,  an'  not  "  Call  again,"  or 

"  May  be," 
An'  a  New  Jerusalum  glory  lit  the  fiel'  an'  wilderness, 


An'  the  sun  bust  out  like  laughter  on  the  round  face  of  a  baby, 
Wen  Melindy,  my  Melindy,  tol'  me  "Yes  !  " 


Like  a  twenty-million  orchestra  away  beyon'  all  countin', 
The  bob'links  bubbled  over  in  a  music  waterfall ; 

An'  I  felt  just  like  a-mountin'  on  the  meetin'  house  an'  shoutin', 
That  Paradise  was  open,  with  admission  free  to  all. 


29 


Each  grass  blade  in  the  medder  was  a  string  to  Natur's  fiddle, 
Thet  wuz  played  on  by  the  zephyrs  with  a  velvety  caress  : 

An'  Ol'  Natur's  jints  were  limbered,  an'  she  shashayed  down 

the  middle, 
Wen  Melindy,  my  Melindy,  tol'  me  "  Yes  !  " 

An'  the  angels  played  so  bully,  thet  the  music  reached  the 

gateway, 
An'  came  spillin'  through  the  op'nin'  an'  a-singing  down  to 

earth,  — 
Came    a-singin'    such    a    great    way    thet    the    universe    wuz 

straightway 

Shoutin'  in  the  glad  redem'tion  of  a  holy  secon'  birth  ; 
An'  I  —  I  set  a-straddle  on  the  ridge-pole  of  Creation, 

An'  only  fit  to  holler  in  my  hootin'  happiness, 
Wen  Melindy,  my  Melindy,  filled  my  heart  'ith  jubilation, 
Wen  Melindy,  my  Melindy,  tol'  me  "Yes  !  " 


NEW   YEAR   RIGHTEOUSNESS. 

BOUT  New  Year's   I  grit  my  teeth,  I  brace  my  feet 

an'  swear 

Thet  I'll  rastle  with  ol'  Satan  an'  down  him   every 
where  ; 

A  fittin'  chum  for  Baxter's  saints,  a  man  of  heavenly  worth, 
An  angel  with  red  whiskers,  I  will  roam  about  the  earth. 

So  I  make  a  lunge  for  Satan,  who  stan's  a-leerin'  there, 
An'  plant  my  right  fist  on  his  nose,  my  left  han'  in  his  hair  ; 
An'  he  staggers  like  a  drunken  man,  an'  totters,  with  a  groan — 
The  frien'  of  sin,  the  foe  of  man,  he  lies  there  overthrown  \ 

An'  so,  on  January  first,  'neath  Virtue's  soft  caress, 
I  feel  all  soaked  in  sanctity,  an'  steeped  in  righteousness, 
A  sort  er  walkin'  meetin'-house,  all  sin-born  fears  are  fled  — 
For,  don't  the   righteous  own  the  earth,  an'  ain't  the  devil 
dead  ? 

But   the   day    after   New   Year's    Day,   the    devil    moves    his 

head, 

An'  I  am  all  broke  up  to  find  the  old  scamp  isn't  dead ; 
An'  later  in  the  afternoon,  he  jest  begins  to  blink, 
An'  has  the  cheek  to  lift  his  head,  'an  cock  his  eye  an'  wink. 

An'  then  on  January  third  he  starts  to  limp  about, 
An'  I  walk  up  an'  say  to  him  :   "  I'm  glad  to  see  you  out." 
An'  then  he  jest  hoi's  out  his  han'  for  me  to  come  an'  take  it, 
An'  I,  like  a  big,  tarnal  fool,  jest  waltz  right  up  and  shake  it. 


NEW    YEAR    RIGHTEOUSNESS.  31 

These  little  New  Year's  battles  Satan  thinks  is  only  play, 

If  you  want  to  worst    the   devil,  you  must  trounce  him  every 

day  ; 
So,    every    day,   jest    grit    yer    teeth,   an'    brace  yer   feet,    an' 

swear 
That  you'll  rastle  with  ol'  Satan,  an'  down  him  everywhere  '. 


THE   PATH   THROUGH   THE    WOOD. 

was  a  kid  I  driv'  the  cows  to  parsture  every 


W'EN  I  w 
A^'M 

An'  I'd 


go  and  fetch  'em  home  at  night,  and  think 
it  on'y  play  : 
But    sometimes,  arter    dark   come    on,  where    the  black  ol' 

hemlocks  stood, 
I'd  git  so  sca't  that  I  would  fly  through  the  long,  long  path 

through  the  wood. 

Twas  a  long,  long  path  through  the  wood, 
An'  I  tell  yeou, 
That  I  jest  flew 
Through  the  long,  long  path  through  the  wood. 

I  skipped  along  by  the  open  fiel',  an'  danced  an'  scampered 

an'  sung, 
An'   whistled   a   toon  thet  jest  kep'  time   with  the  toon  the 

cowbells  rung. 
An'  Brindle  an'  Whiteface  'ud  frolic  an'  scoot —  seemed  's  if 

they  understood  — 
Until  we  come  to  the  aidge  of  the  swamp,  an'  the  long,  long 

path  through  the  wood. 

My  !  the  long,  long  path  through  the  wood ; 
It  was  crowded  with  hosts 
Of  critters  an'  ghosts, 
That  long,  long  path  through  the  wood. 

But  'tain't  on'y  boys  thet  drive  their  cows,  but  men  in  country 

and  town, 
Thet  travel  a  path  thet  is  thick  'ith  fears,  long  arter  the  sun 

goes  down ; 


THE  PATH   THROUGH  THE    WOOD.  33 

For  many  a  man  has  trembled  and  shook,  where  the  dark, 

black  hemlocks  stood, 
Has  shook  at  the  ghosts  of  his  own  dead  days,  in  his  long, 

long  path  through  the  wood. 
'Tis  a  long,  long  path  through  the  wood, 
With  a  dew  of  tears 
From  the  long  gone  years, 
Oh,  the  long,  long  path  through  the  wood. 

An'  there  ain't  no  feet,  as  I  un'erstan',  but  mus'  travel  the 

path  some  day, 
Wen  the  big  sun  sinks  behin'  the  hills,  an'  the  worl'  grows 

col'  an'  gray ; 
For  we  all  git  lost  in  the  hemlock  hills,  where  the  big  black 

shadders  brood, 
An'  are  chased  by  the  ghosts  of  turribul   fears,  through  the 

long,  long  path  through  the  wood. 
Ah,  the  long,  long  path  through  the  wood, 
Through  the  path  er  dread 
Thet  all  must  tread, 
The  long,  long  path  through  the  wood. 

Yes,  we  all  hev  to  walk  through  the  hemlock  path,  through  the 

path  that  stretches  far, 
Wen  the  silence  er  darkness  comes  down  on  the  soul,  an'  the 

midnight  has  no  star ; 
An'  we  fight  in  the  awful  dark  alone,  as  strong  an'  brave  men 

should, 
But  there's   scars  on  the  soul  w'en  it  comes  at  last  through 

the  long,  long  path  through  the  wood  ; 
Ah,  the  long,  long  path  through  the  wood, 
An'  scars  thet  will  stay 
Till  its  dyin'  day,  — 
Oh,  the  long,  long  path  through  the  wood. 


JIM'S  FUTURE. 

°~T  IM  has  a  future  front  of  him,"  — 
/£)  1       That's  what  they  used  to  say  of  Jim, 

For  when  young  Jim  was  only  ten 
He  mingled  with  the  wisest  men,  — 
With  wisest  men  he  used  to  mix, 
And  talk  of  law  and  politics  ; 
And  everybody  said  of  Jim, 
"  He  has  a  future  front  of  him." 


When  Jim  was  twenty  years  of  age, 
All  costumed,  ready  for  life's  stage, 
He  had  a  perfect  man's  physique, 
And  knew  philosophy  and  Greek  ; 
He'd  delved  in  every  misty  tome 
Of  old  Arabia  and  Rome  ; 
And  everybody  said  of  Jim, 
"  He  has  a  future  front  of  him." 


When  Jim  was  thirty  years  of  age, 
He'd  made  a  world-wide  pilgrimage, 
He'd  walked  and  studied  'neath  the  trees, 
Of  German  universities, 
And  visited  and  pondered  on 
The  sites  of  Thebes  and  Babylon ; 
And  everybody  said  of  Jim, 
"  He  has  a  future  front  of  him." 


JIM'S  FUTURE.  35 

The  heir  to  all  earth's  heritage, 

Was  Jim  at  forty  years  of  age, 

The  lore  of  all  the  years  was  shut, 

And  focussed  in  his  occiput ; 

And  people  thought,  so  much  he  knew, 

"  What  wondrous  things  our  Jim  will  do  !  " 

They  more  than  ever  said  of  Jim, 

"  He  has  a  future  front  of  him." 


At  fifty  years,  though  Jim  was  changed, 

He  had  his  knowledge  well  arranged, 

All  tabulated,  systemized, 

And  adequately  synthesized. 

His  head  was  so  well  rilled  within, 

He  thought :   ''I'm  ready  to  begin." 

And  everybody  said  of  Jim, 

"  He  has  a  future  front  of  him." 


At  sixty  —  no  more  need  be  said  — 
At  sixty  years  poor  Jim  was  dead. 
The  preacher  said  that  such  as  he 
Would  shine  to  all  eternity ; 
In  other  worlds,  beyond  the  blue, 
There  was  great  work  for  Jim  to  do ; 
And  o'er  his  bier  he  said  of  Jim, 
"  He  has  a  future  front  of  him." 


The  great  deeds  we  are  going  to  do 
Shine  'gainst  the  vastness  of  the  blue, 
Like  sunset  clouds  of  lurid  light 
Against  the  background  of  the  night ; 


36  A    CHILD'S   QUESTION. 

And  so  we  climb  the  endless  slope, 
Far  up  the  crownless  heights  of  hope ; 
And  each  one  makes  himself  a  Jim, 
And  rears  a  future  front  of  him. 


A    CHILD'S    QUESTION. 

HEN  the  fragrant  breeze  was  loaded  with  perfume, 
When  the  joyous  Maytime  season,  bright  and  fair, 
Arrayed  herself  in  robes  of  bud  and  bloom, 

And  a  storm  of  apple  blossoms  filled  the  air  — 
Then  I  watched  a  sturdy  father  in  his  prime 

Bending  low,  his  little  daughter's  voice  to  hear : 
"  Why  don't  the  birds  sing,  father,  all  the  time, 
And  the  apple  blossoms  blossom  all  the  year?  " 

"Ah,"  thought  I,  "were  all  as  sweet  and  pure  and  good 

As  this  sunny  little  maid  with  golden  hair, 
Our  lives  would  have  no  wintry  solitude  — 

It  would  be  summer  always,  everywhere. 
We  would  live  in  an  eternal  flower  clime, 

And  the  storm  that  breaks  in  thunder  none  would  fear, 
For  the  song  birds  would  be  with  us  all  the  time, 

And  the  apple  blossoms  blossom  all  the  year." 


PATHS. 

TT7  HE  path  that  leads  to  a  Loaf  of  Bread 

Winds  through  the  Swamps  of  Toil, 
And  the  path  that  leads  to  a  Suit  of  Clothes 
Goes  through  a  flowerless  soil, 

And  the  paths  that  lead  to  a  Loaf  of  Bread. 

And  the  Suit  of  Clothes  are  hard  to  tread. 

And  the  path  that  leads  to  a  House  of  Your  Own 

Climbs  over  the  bowldered  hills, 
And  the  path  that  leads  to  a  Bank  Account 

Is  swept  by  the  blast  that  kills  : 
But  the  men  who  start  in  the  paths  to-day 
In  the  Lazy  Hills  may  go  astray. 

In  the  Lazy  Hills  are  trees  of  shade, 

By  the  dreamy  Brooks  of  Sleep, 
And  the  rollicking  River  of  Pleasure  laughs, 

And  gambols  down  the  steep ; 
But  when  the  blasts  of  Winter  come, 
The  brooks  and  the  river  are  frozen  dumb. 

Then  woe  to  those  in  the  Lazy  Hills 

When  the  blasts  of  Winter  moan, 
\Vho  strayed  from  the  path  to  a  Bank  Account 

And  the  path  to  a  House  of  Their  Own ; 
These  paths  are  hard  in  the  summer  heat, 
But  in  Winter  they  lead  to  a  snug  retreat. 


THE  MILKING    OF  THE    COW. 

)  I  r  HE  milk  pail  used  to  verbify  a  mild  and  mellow  metre, 

When  I  used  to  milk  old  Brindle  in  the  yard, 
And  the  shining  milk  was  sweeter   unto  me  and  little 

Peter 

Than  oriental  perfumes  of  frankincense  and  nard, 
The  sunset  flung  its  banners  from  the  gilded  hills  about  us, 
And  the  odors  of  the  evening  seemed  to  drop  from  every 

bough, 
There  was  peace  and  glad  contentment  both  within  us  and 

without  us, 
At  the  sweet  mellifluous  milking  of  the  cow. 

And  wandering,  like  a  memory  from  the  silent  past's  abysm, 

I  smell  the  grateful  odors  of  the  fragrant  evening  breeze, 
And  I  bend  to  catch  the  chrism  of  the  twilight's  glad  baptism, 

And  the  outstretched  benediction  of  the  trees. 
The  glory  of  the  summer  night,  the  magic  of  the  mountains, 

And   the    tinklings  of  the  twilight  on  the  farm  are  with 

me  now, 

But  through  all  the  mingling  music  still  I  hear  those  falling 
fountains, 

The  sweet  mellifluous  milking  of  the  cow. 

Still  I  hear  the  joyful  rhythm  of  that  titillating  tinkle, 

And  I  smell  the  grateful  odors  of  the  placid,  perfumed 

night,— 

Odors  blown  from  glens  a-sprinkle  with  wild-rose  and  peri 
winkle, 
And  from  lakes  where  lazy  lilies  loll  in  languor  for  the  light. 


THE  MILKING    OF   THE    COW. 


Through    the    valley  of  the   Long  Years   that   is  glimmering 

behind  me 

I  peer  adown  the  vista  that  connects  the  then  and  now, 
With    a    youth's    audacious    unconcern    a    careless    boy    I 

find  me, 
At  the  sweet  mellifluous  milking  of  the  cow. 


MEMORIAL   DAY. 

T"\OT  as  white  saints  without  a  blot, 
1     Whose  souls  were  stainless  of  a  spot, 
(s)     Were  these  plain  men  of  average  clay, 
But  mortal,  like  plain  men  to-day. 
For  always,  in  dark  hours  of  need, 
A  man  is  furnished  for  the  deed ; 
And  always  when  the  storm  clouds  lower, 
Strong  men  are  ready  for  the  hour. 
And  thus,  from  earth's  most  common  breed 
Spring  heroes  fit  for  every  need. 

These  men  were  common  men,  'tis  true, 
Just  common  men  like  me  and  you. 
The  plain  man  is  the  basic  clod 
From  which  we  grow  the  demigod  ; 
And  in  the  average  man  is  curled 
The  hero  stuff  that  rules  the  world. 
And  so  we  deck,  on  hill  and  glen, 
The  hero  graves  of  common  men. 

Plain,  common  men  of  every  day, 

Who  left  their  homes  to  march  away, 

To  perish  on  the  battle  plain, 

As  common  men  will  do  again ; 

To  lift  a  ghastly,  glazing  eye 

Up  to  a  lurid  stranger  sky 

Until  it  sees  a  painted  rag  — 

The  same  old  common  spangled  flag  — 


MEMORIAL   DAY.  43 


And  then  to  die,  and  testify 
To  all  the  ages,  far  and  nigh, 
How  commonplace  it  is  to  die. 

It  is  not  merely  now  and  then 

We  find  such  hearts  in  common  men, 

Such  hero  souls  emvrapt  away 

In  swathing  folds  of  common  clay  — 

But  standing  face  to  face  with  fate, 

All  common  men  are  always  great. 

For  men  are  cowards  in  the  gloom 

Of  their  own  little,  selfish  fears,  — 
Not  when  the  thunder-steps  of  doom 

Stride  through  the  trembling  years. 
And  in  an  open  fight  with  fate 
All  common  men  are  always  great. 


THE   BURSTING    OF  THE   BOOM. 

0UR  village  was  the   boomingest  rip-roaring  place  you 
ever  sawn, 
An  alder  swamp,  in  thirty  days,  would  grow  into  a 

public  lawn, 
Scrub  parstures  grew  to  public  parks,  and  frog  ponds  into  trim 

front  yards, 
An'  fox  trails  into  public  streets,  an'  cow  paths  into  boolevards  ! 

We  had  a  libr'y  an'  high  skule,  two  letter  carriers  for  the  mail, 
Four  churches  with  four  choir  rows,  two  lawyers,  an'  a  bang- 
up  jail, 

Two  editers  who  fit  in  style  no  New  York  editer  could  beat, — 
One  had  "  a  vile   an'   scurrilous  rag,"   an'   one  "  a  low  an' 
measly  sheet." 

"What   made    the    town    die    out?"  you   ask.     It   was   the 

strangest  thing,  I  swear,  — 
Smith's  dog  chased  Eben  Johnson's  cat,  an'  that's  the  whole 

of  the  affair. 
An'  Johnson  said  Smith  set  him  on,  an'  Smith  said  Johnson 

was  a  liar, 
So  Johnson  set  the  flame  agoin',  an'  Smith  poured  ile  upon 

the  fire. 

Then  Mrs.  Smith  perked  up  her  nose  at  Mrs.  Johnson  in  the 

street. 
The  little  Johnsonses  an'  Smiths  wouldn't  speak  at  all  if  they 

should  meet ; 
The  sewing  circle  then  took  sides  an'  soon  broke  up  in  wordy 

fights, 
For  part  took  sides  with  Mrs.  Smith,  an'  part  were  Johnsonites. 


THE  BURSTING    OF  THE  BOOM.  45 

The  trouble  got  into  the  church,  an'  then,  instid  o'  praise  an' 

prayer, 
The  pastor  got  his  fingers  mixed  in  Deacon  Peleg  Putnam's 

hair ; 
The  prayer-meet'n  broke  up  in  noise ;  next  day  the  minister 

resigned, 
An'  Deacon  Putnam  he  went  roun'  with  one  eye  black  an' 

t'other  blind. 

Young  Smithites  courtin'   Johnsonites,   broke   off  with    their 

purspective  brides, 

An'  soon  there  was  two  lunatics  an'  then  three  suicides ; 
Then  half  the  young  men  moved  from  town,  an'  soon  were 

followed  by  their  pals, 
For  what  is  life  but  jest  a  bore  to  bright  young  men  without 

no  gals  ! 

Folks  moved  away,  the  stores  failed  up,  the  bottom  dropped 

out  of  the  boom, 
The  bank  it  busted,  an'  we  thought  nex'  thing  we'd  hear  the 

crack  of  doom. 
An'  now  the  grass  grows  in  our  streets,  an'  the  whole  boom 

has  fallen  flat ; 
But    Johnson's    cat  an'   Smith's  old   dog   are    doin'   well  an' 

growin'  fat  ! 


THE    CARVEN  NAME. 

1    WANDERED  in  the  forest,  when 
My  sated  soul  had  tired  of  men, 
Till  to  a  spreading  beech  I  came, 
And  on  it  idly  carved  my  name  ; 
Then  lightly  threw  myself  across 
A  forest-couch  of  fragrant  moss, 
Where  soon  I  sank  in  slumber  deep 

And  softly  entered,  through  the  gleam 
Of  misty  porticos  of  Sleep, 

The  shadowy  Palace  of  a  Dream. 

I  dreamed  how  through  the  years  would  grow, 

Alternate  clothed  with  leaves  and  snow, 

Through  April's  tears,  October's  flame, 

The  beech-tree  with  the  carven  name ; 

And  bird  and  squirrel  overhead 

Peer  down  upon  my  name  unread, 

While  Solitude,  upon  his  throne, 

Would  reign  in  silence  o'er  his  own, 

Until  some  hunter  with  his  gun, 

O'erwearied  by  the  noonday  sun, 

Companioned  by  his  panting  dog, 

Would  seat  him  on  some  mossy  log, 

And,  glancing  up,  a  glad  surprise  — 

My  carven  name  —  would  meet  his  eyes  ; 

And  he  would  see  before  him  wrought 

The  symbol  of  a  vanished  thought, 

A  silent  influence  to  bind 

A  severed  being  to  his  kind. 


THE   CARVEN  NAME.  49 


Then  changed  the  scene,  the  years  glide  on, 

A  quarter-century  has  gone. 

'Tis  Morn  in  Winter ;  o'er  the  snows 

The  sturdy  woodman  taskward  goes. 

The  ground  with  fallen  trunks  he  strews, 

And  down  the  forest  avenues 

The  echoes  of  his  axe  are  heard 

By  startled  hare  and  wondering  bird. 

New  comrades  join  him,  day  by  day, 

And  bravely  hew  their  onward  way  ; 

In  the  keen  air  their  axes  glance, 

And  chime,  as  to  the  wood-nymph's  dance ; 

The  music  of  the  cross-cut  saw 

Breaks  through  the  wood's  cathedral  awe, 

And  Solitude,  spoiled  of  his  own, 

Goes  forth  to  seek  another  throne. 

But  soon  the  patient  woodmen  reach, 

And  pause  beneath,  the  ancient  beech ; 

Then,  in  a  backwoods  parle,  decide 

To  leave  the  monarch  in  his  pride ; 

For  all  unite  with  one  acclaim 

To  spare  it  for  the  stranger's  name. 


Again  a  change  :  before  mine  eye 

There  sways  a  shimmering  plain  of  rye, 

And  the  winds,  raving  wild  and  free, 

Toss  it,  in  billows,  like  the  sea. 

But,  in  the  midst  of  ripened  sheaves, 

The  old  beech  wears  its  crown  of  leaves ; 

In  Autumn's  regal  glory  stands, 

The  hierarch  of  the  harvest  lands  : 

And  weary  laborers  are  laid 

In  noonday  rest  beneath  its  shade. 


5° 


THE    CARVEN  NAME. 


The  carven  name  their  curious  eyes 
Question  with  many  a  vague  surmise  : 
Till  an  old  man  with  locks  of  snow 
Tells  how  a  dreamer,  long  ago, 
First  carved  the  name  in  idling  mood 
In  Nature's  untrod  solitude. 


And  strange  unto  their  fancy  seems 
This  dreamer  from  a  land  of  dreams, 
Whose  life,  unknown  for  praise  or  blame, 
Had  left  no  record  but  his  name. 


THE    CARVEN  NAME. 


The  vision  widens  :   on  mine  eye 
No  longer  waves  the  ripened  rye ; 
But  lo  !  within  a  play-ground  neat 
The  schoolhouse  of  a  village  street. 
The  ancient  beech  before  it  stands, 
Waving  abroad  yet  mightier  hands  ; 
And  darting  warblers  from  the  tree 
Pour  down  their  madrigals  of  glee. 
Beneath,  the  children  at  their  play 
Are  glad,  are  jubilant  as  they. 
Ah  !  long  shall  memory  recall 
This  daily  school-boy  carnival  ! 
To  men  and  matrons,  old  and  gray, 
This  sport  shall  seem  but  yesterday. 
For  memory  casts  a  rainbow  screen 
Around  the  years  that  intervene. 
And  so  the  craggy  heights  of  age 

Look  down  directly  on  the  smooth 
Green  vales  of  childhood's  heritage  — 

The  dewy  meadow-lands  of  youth  ! 


The  schoolboy  with  his  favorite  maid 
Lingers  beneath  the  ancient  shade, 
And  feels  a  rapture  which  the  years 
With  all  their  laughter  and  their  tears 
Can  from  his  memory  ne'er  remove,  — 
The  rapture  of  an  earliest  love  ! 
Dream  on  beneath  the  beechen  shade, 
Gay  barefoot  boy  and  laughing  maid ; 
Dream  on,  nor  soon  awake  to  see 
Life's  stern  and  cold  reality,  — 
Its  tender  buds  of  promise  killed, 
Its  morning  visions  unfulfilled  ; 


52 


THE    CARVEN  NAME. 


Dream  on,  nor  soon  awake  to  learn 
That  dead  loves  never  more  return  ! 

The  vision  heightens  :   I  behold, 
With  silvery  spires  and  domes  of  gold 
Far,  far  beyond  my  dazzled  eyes, 
A  city  towering  to  the  skies ; 
And  standing  'mid  the  din  and  glare 
Of  traffic's  thronging  thoroughfare, 
The  same  old  carven  beech  looks  down 
On  all  the  tumult  of  the  town. 
And  hurrying  merchants  pause  to  mark 
The  moss-grown  letters  on  its  bark ; 
For  many  a  legend,  strange  and  fair, 
And  many  a  story,  old  and  rare, 
And  tale  and  song  and  minstrelsy 
Have  glorified  the  ancient  tree. 
It  links  the  city's  swarming  brood 
With  nature's  pathless  solitude  ; 
And  joins  an  age  of  bard  and  sage 
With  olden  ages,  coarse  and  rude. 

But  see  !  a  light  breeze  from  the  farms 
Has  caught  the  old  tree  in  its  arms ; 
It  falls,  and  round  it  in  a  ring 
Men  swarm,  as  fiefs  around  a  king 
Who,  of  life's  pageant  weary  grown, 
Falls  dying  from  his  tottering  throne  ! 
But  one  is  there  whose  soul-lit  eyes 
Bear  the  deep  blue  of  country  skies, 
A  poet,  who  in  all  things  sees 
New  meanings  and  new  mysteries ; 
And  near  the  tree  amid  the  throng, 
Outwells  from  him  this  artless  song : 


THE    CAR  YEN  NAME.  53 

I 

Enshrined  amid  the  ancient  wood, 
Long  ages  gone  our  beech-tree  stood, 
Unchallenged  king  of  solitude  ! 

ii 

In  slumberous  summers  long  ago 
It  felt  the  woodland  breezes  blow 
And  toss  its  branches  to  and  fro. 


It  braved  a  hundred  winter's  harms, 
It  mocked  the  tempest's  wild  alarms,. 
And  took  the  whirlwind  in  its  arms ; 

IV 

And  beat  by  storms  of  snow  and  rain, 
A  conscious  Titan,  in  disdain 
Defied  the  pigmy  hurricane. 

v 

Men  spared  it  for  a  stranger's  name, 
Who  moulders  now  unknown  to  fame  — 
Dust  in  the  dust  from  whence  he  came  ! 

VI 

And  years  pass  on,  and  ages  roll, 

And  no  man  knows  where  roams  the  soul 

That  moved  the  hand  to  trace  that  scroll. 

VII 

And  no  one  knows,  on  land  or  deep, 
Where  nature  holds  him  in  her  keep,  — 
The  still  place  where  he  fell  asleep. 


54 


THE    CARVEN  NAME. 


VIII 


And  no  one  knows  what  voids  of  night, 
What  starry  domes  of  trembling  light 
His  soul  has  met  upon  its  flight. 

IX 

And  Fame  no  proud  word  of  him  saith, 
He  only  left  his  name  —  a  breath 
Blown  from  the  shoreless  seas  of  death. 

x 

And  years  pass  on,  and  ages  roll ; 

And  no  man  knows  where  roams  the  soul 

That  moved  the  hand  to  trace  that  scroll ! 


THE   EASTER   MAIDEN'S   HYMN   OF  PRAISE. 

1FEEL  a  solemn  sanctity, 
Sweet  rest  of  soul  is  mine, 
My  heart  abides  in  pious  peace,  — 

(My  bonnet  sets  divine  !) 
Grace,  like  a  river,  fills  my  soul, 

In  chastened  joy  I  sit, 
I  feel  religion's  deepest  power,  — 
(My  sacque's  a  perfect  fit.) 

A  holy  fervor  penetrates 

My  soul's  remotest  nooks, 
An  earnest,  chastened,  fervid  joy,  — 

(How  neat  that  ribbon  looks  !) 
The  good  man  tells  of  Christian  peace, 

The  organ's  anthem  swells, 
I  bathe  in  streams  of  pure  delight  — 

(My  dress  cost  more  than  Nell's  !) 

0  holy  rest !     O,  Sabbath  calm  ! 
O  chastened  peace  serene  ! 

1  feel  thy  deep,  abiding  spell ! 

(How  dowdy  is  Miss  Green  !) 
I  feel  a  pure,  religious  glow, 

O  rapture  undefined  ! 
(I  know  my  bonnet  looks  so  nice 

To  those  who  sit  behind  !) 


JOHN  BILLINGTON'S  JOURNEY. 


"TOHN  BILLINGTON,   on  April  first,  went   forth    from 
/£)  I  New  Orleans, 

Dressed   in  a  clean  white  linen  suit,  a  well-groomed 

man  of  means. 

He  wore  a  pair  of  russet  shoes,  a  spotless  white  cravat, 
A  pair  of  thin  silk  stockings,  and  an  excellent  straw  hat. 

He  travelled  up  to  Birmingham  :  the  mercury  went  down, 
And  so  he  bought  a  woollen  coat  of  good  substantial  brown. 
"I  hate  superfluous  truck,"  says  he,  "to  lug  from  day  to  day, 
And  so  I'll  put  the  thick  coat  on  and  throw  the  thin  away." 

Then  on  to  Chattanooga  flew  the  limited  express  ; 

He  felt  his  pantaloons  were  thin,  and  shivered  in  distress  ; 

He  bought  a  thick  black  woollen  pair,  and  still  pursued  his 

quest, 
And  journeyed  on  to  Richmond,  where  he  bought  another  vest. 

When  he  reached  Philadelphia  it  rained  a  pouring  flood, 
And  hence  he   found  his  russet  shoes  were  poor  things  for 

the  mud  ; 

He  bought  a  stout  dark-leather  pair  to  wade  the  watery  float, 
And  journeyed  onward  to  New  York  and  bought  an  overcoat. 

Next  day  he  went  to  Boston  ;  the  shivers  made  him  creep, 
The  air  was  cold  as  Greenland  and  the  snow  was  four  feet 

deep  ; 

But  bravely  did  he  sally  forth,  with  chill  and  cold  half  dead, 
His  overcoat  all  buttoned  up,  a  straw  hat  on  his  head. 


JOHN  BILLINGTOX'S  JOURNEY.  57 

A  straw  hat  and  an  overcoat,  a  snow-storm  and  all  that, 

The  youngsters  of  that  classic  town  all  shouting  "  Shoot  that 

hat !  " 

The  strange  concatenation  made  the  cultured  people  smile, 
And  young  musicians  whistled  shrill,   "  Where  did  you  get 

that  tile?  " 

He  rushed  and  bought  a  sealskin  cap,  stopped  at  the  "  Hub  " 

a  day, 
And  then   resumed   his   journey   on   his  southern   homeward 

way ; 

He  came  to  New  York  city,  found  it  very  sultry  there, 
And  threw  away  his  overcoat,  it  was  too  warm  to  wear. 

He  went  to  Philadelphia  and  dropped  his  sealskin  cap, 
He  portioned  his  apparel  round  to  each  place  on  the  map, 
His  coat  and  vest  were  scattered  on  successive  sultry  noons, 
He  hung  the  lines  of  longitude  with  cast-off  pantaloons. 

John  Billington,  on  April  twelfth,  came  back  to  New  Orleans, 
Dressed  in  a  clean,  white  linen  suit,  a  well-groomed  man  ot 

means ; 

He  wore  a  pair  of  russet  shoes,  a  spotless  white  cravat, 
A  pair  of  thin  silk  stockings,  and  an  excellent  straw  hat. 


SPRING   POTERY, 

1SKIN  out  behin'  the  barn,  the  first  warm  day  in  spring, 
And  go  to  rattlin'  potery  out,  a-ting-a-ling-a-ling. 
It  busts,  jest  like  volcaners  bust,  an'  comes  a-rollin'  out, 
I  never  try  to  hoi'  it  in,  but  allus  let  her  spout ! 

An'  I  like  potery  better'n  pie,  or  any  kin'  er  sass, 
An'  hanker  for't  like  winter  cows  a-hankerin'  for  grass  ; 
It  bubbles  up  like  yeast  in  spring  in  bread  thet's  partly  riz, 
An'  aggervates  yer  sistem  like  a  case  er  roomatiz. 

The  angels  pack  their  winter  clo'es  —  their  clo'es  from  head 

to  feet  — 
An'   douse   perfum'ry  on  'em  —  at's  w'at  makes  the   air  so 

sweet  — 
The  flirtin'  heavens,  they  sass  the  hills  'ith  win's  an'  peltin' 

showers, 
An'  then  the  jolly,  gigglin'  hills,  they  sass  right  back  'ith  flowers. 

The  earth,  whose  jints  hez  been  so  stiff  'ith  frosty  roomatiz, 
Jest  sticks  her  sunshine  plaster  on,  an'  goes  about  her  biz, 
An'  Natur',  she  jest  swalLers  down  her  tonic  uv  warm  win', 
Shakes  off  the  blues,  an'  then  resolves  to  try  the  thing  agin. 

The  brook  thet's  been    a-grumblin'  on  way  un'erneath  the 

snow, 

Breaks  into  sich  a  laffin'  song  it  makes  the  mayflowers  grow. 
Look  here  !    Wy  shouldn't  I  blossom  out,  an'  cist  off  winter's 

gloom  ? 
Wy  shouldn't  I  bust  in  potery  ez  mayflowers  bust  in  bloom  ? 


THE   AGE    OF  LIGHTNING.  59 


The  brooks  go  peddlin'  potery ;   the  robins  strew  it  roun', 
The  bobolink  jest  slings  it,  an'  makes  the  air  resoun'. 
In  flowin'     lines  er  crocuses,  no  man  should  dare  to  skip, 
God  writes  his  purtiest  potery  on  his  medder  manuscrip'. 


THE   AGE    OF  LIGHTNING. 

THIS  is  an  age  of  lightning, 
The  world  hums  on  its  way, 
And  lightning  lights  its  lamp  by  night, 
And  pulls  its  load  by  day ; 
And  he  who  seeks  its  prizes, 

The  world's  applause  or  gains, 
Must  stir  the  lightning  in  his  blood, 
And  mix  it  in  his  brains. 

Right  on  it  spins,  a  whirling  whizz 

With  fierce  electric  gleams, 
Right  down  "  the  ringing  grooves  of  change  " 

The  blazing  courser  streams  ; 
Then  watch  your  chance  and  jump  aboard, 

Throw  off  your  heavy  chains, 
And  stir  the  lightning  in  your  blood, 

And  mix  it  in  your  brains. 


THE   FANCY-WORK  MAIDEN. 

N'   so  you  kinder  wanter  know   w'y  I    broke   off  with 

Sal? 
It  warn't  because  she  warn't  a  good  an'  mighty  purty 

gal: 
For  there  ain't  a  blessed  star  in  heaven  shines  brighter  than 

her  eyes, 
An'  her  cheeks  are  jest  like  peaches  on  the  trees  er  Paradise  ! 

An'  her  smile  is  like  the  sunshine  spilt  upon  a  flower  bed, 
An'  her  hair  like  sproutin'  sunbeams   on  the  garding  of  her 

head, 

An'  her  laff  is  like  a  singin'  brook  that  bubbles  as  it  passes 
Thro'    the    stuck-up    tiger    lilies,    an'    the    purty    smellin' 

grasses. 

An'  I  told  her  that  I  loved  her,  much  as  forty  times  a  day, 
But  she  hadn't  much  time  to  bother,  an'  kep'  on  with  her 

crowshay ; 
Wen  I  plumped  right  down  afore  her,  plumb  upon  my  very 

knees, 
She   said,  "  Git   off  my  ric-rac,  an'    you're    rumplin'   up   my 

frieze." 

An'    I    tried     to    talk    of    love,    an    things,    an'    told     her    I 

would  die 

Unless  she  smiled  upon  my  soot.  She  simply  said,  "  Oh,  my  ! 
You've  tore  my  purty  tidy  down,  an'  —  hain't  ye  got  no  eyes  ? 
—  You've  planted  them  big  feet  o'  yourn  on  them  air 

tapestries  !  " 


THE   FANCY-WORK  MAIDEN. 


61 


An'  she  wove  in  big  flamingoes,  snipes,  an'  turkeys  ou  her  rugs, 
An'  she  painted  yaller  poodles  on  her  mother's  'lasses  jugs, 
An'  she  painted  purple  angels  on  majenta  colored  plaques, 
An'  five  orange-colored  cherubs,  with  blue  wings  behin'  their 
backs. 


An'  w'en  I  talked  of  love  an'  stuff,  she'd  talk  of  rugs  an'  lace, 
An'  ax  me  would  I  take  my  feet  from  off  thet  Chiny  vase. 
I'd  say,  "My  heart's  love,  O,  be  mine  !  be  mine  !  be  wholly 

mine  !  " 
She'd  say,  "You've  got  your  elbows  mixed  in  that,  silk  skein 

er  twine." 


62 


BOSTON  AND    GLORY. 


Now  I'm  goin'  to  Arizony  for  to  do  a  cowboy's  work, 
Driven  forth  from  civil'zation  by  the  cuss  er  fancy-work, 
But  her  smile  will  allus  hant  me,  allus  in  my  visions  play, 
Framed    in    latest    styles    of  ric-rac,    with    a   backgroun'    of 
crowshay. 


BOSTON  AND    GLORY. 

'I  would  make  Boston  a  suburb  of  glory."  — SAM  JONES. 


M 


AKE   Boston  a  suburb  of  glory, 

Sam  Jones? 

Do  you  know  what  such,  sacrilege  means  ? 
I  fear  you  have  not  read  the  story, 

Sam  Jones, 

Of  that  city  of  culture  and  beans. 
You.  are  sailing  through  breakers  and  rocks, 

Sam  Jones, 

A  dangerous  sea  you  are  tossed  on ; 
Hereafter  be  sure  in  your  talks, 

Sam  Jones, 
To  make  glory  a  suburb  of  Boston  ! 


THE   INVENTOR. 

E  had  a  startling  genius,  but  somehow  it  didn't  emerge  ; 
Always   on    the    evolution    of    things    that    wouldn't 

evolve  ; 
Always  verging  toward  some  climax,  but  he  never  reached  the 

verge ; 

Always  nearing  the  solution  of  some  theme  he  could  not 
solve. 

And  he  found  perpetual  motion,  but  a  cog  wheel  set  awry 
Burst  his  complex  apparatus  and  he  could  not  get  it  fixed ; 

And  he  made  a  life  elixir  —  if  you  drank  you'd  never  die  — 
But  the  druggist  spoilt  the  compound  when  the  medicine 
was  mixed. 

And  he  made  a  flying  vessel  that  would  navigate  the  air, 
A  gorgeous  steamer  of  the  heavens,  a  grand  aerial  boat, 

A  matchless  paragon  of  skill,  a  thing  beyond  compare, 

And  the  only  trouble  with  it  —  he  could  never  make  it  float. 

And  he  found  a  potent  acid  that  would  change  red  dirt  to  gold  ; 

But  the  tube   from  which  he  poured  it  had  some  trouble 

with  its  squirt, 
The  gold  held  in  solution  and  would  not  let  go  its  hold, 

And  the  dirt,  in  dogged  stubbornness,  it  still  continued  dirt. 

And  he  made  a  great  catholicon  to  cure  all  disease, 

A  general  panacea  for  every  ache  and  pain, 
But  first  he  tried  it  on  himself,  his  stomach  ache  to  ease, 

And  it  killed  him  very  quickly  —  and  he  did  not  try  again. 


THE   AUCTIONEER'S    GIFT. 

\  I  r  HE  auctioneer  leaped  on  a  chair,  and  bold  and  loud 

and  clear, 
He    poured    his    cataract    of    words  —  just    like    an 

auctioneer. 

An  auction  sale  of  furniture,  where  some  hard  mortgagee 
Was  bound  to  get  his  money  back,  and  pay  his  lawyer's  fee. 

A  humorist  of  wide  renown,  this  doughty  auctioneer, 

His    horse-play    raised    the    loud    guffaw,    and    brought    the 

answering  jeer ; 
He   scattered   round   his  jokes,  like  rain,  on  the  unjust  and 

the  just : 
Sam  Sleeman  said  he  "  laffed  so  much  he  thought  that  he 

would  bust." 

He  knocked  down  bureaus,  beds,  and  stoves,  and  clocks  and 

chandeliers, 
And  a  grand  piano,  which  he  swore  would  "  last  a  thousand 

years  "  ; 

He  rattled  out  the  crockery,  and  sold  the  silverware,  — 
At  last  they  passed  him  up,  to  sell,  a  little  baby's  chair. 

"How  much?  how  much?  come,  make   a  bid;    is  all  your 

money  spent?  " 
And  then  a  cheap,  facetious  wag  came  up  and  bid,  "  One 

cent." 

Just  then  a  sad-faced  woman,  who  stood  in  silence  there, 
Broke  down  and  cried,  "  My  baby's  chair  !      My  poor,  dead 

baby's  chair  !  " 


THE   AUCTIONEER'S    GIFT.  67 


"  Here,  madam,  take   your   baby's  chair,"   said   the   softened 

auctioneer, 

"I  know  it's  value  all  too  well  —  my  baby  died  last  year  — 
And  if  the  owner  of  the  chair,  our  friend,  the  mortgagee, 
Objects  to  this  proceeding,  let  him  send  the  bill  to  me  !  " 

Gone  was  the  tone  of  raillery ;   the  humorist  auctioneer 
Turned  shamefaced  from  his  audience  to  brush  away  a  tear ; 
The  laughing  crowd  was  awed  and  still,  no  tearless  eye  was 

there 
When  the  weeping  woman  reached  and  took  her  little  baby's 

chair. 


THE   AGRICULTURAL    EDITOR'S  POEM. 


\ 


WOULD  flee  from  the  city's  rule  and  law, 

From  its  fashion  and  form  cut  loose, 
And  go  where  the  strawberry  grows  on  its  straw, 
And  the  gooseberry  grows  on  its  goose  ; 
Where  the  catnip  tree  is  climbed  by  the  cat, 

As  she  crouches  for  her  prey  — 
The  guileless  and  unsuspecting  rat, 
On  the  rattan  bush  at  play. 


I  will  watch  at  ease  the  saffron  cow 

And  the  cowlet  in  their  glee, 
As  they  leap  in  joy  from  bough  to  bough, 

On  the  top  of  the  cowslip  tree ; 
Where  the  musical  partridge  drums  on  his  drum, 

And  the  woodchuck  chucks  his  wood, 
And  the  dog  devours  the  dogwood  plum 

In  the  primitive  solitude. 


Oh,  let  me  drink  from  the  moss-grown  pump 

That  was  hewn  from  the  pumpkin  tree, 
Eat  mush  and  milk  from  a  rural  stump 

(From  form  and  fashion  free)  — 
New  gathered  mush  from  the  mushroom  vine, 

And  milk  from  the  milkweed  sweet, 
With  luscious  pineapple  from  the  pine  — 

Such  food  as  the  gods  might  eat  ! 


THE  AGRICULTURAL   EDITOR'S   POEM.  69 


And  then  to  the  whitewashed  dairy  I'll  turn, 

Where  the  dairymaid  hastening  hies, 
Her  ruddy  and  golden  red  butter  to  churn 

From  the  milk  of  her  butterflies  ; 
And  I'll  rise  at  morn  with  the  early  bird, 

To  the  fragrant  farmyard  pass, 
When  the  farmer  turns  his  beautiful  herd 

Of  grasshoppers  out  to  grass. 


THE    QUESTION. 

TT7  HE  orator  gets  up  to  speak 

9  And  starts  out  with  an  opening  shriek, 

"The  question  naturally  arises." 
Well,  orator,  as  I  surmise, 
These  questions  frequently  arise 
And  stand  up  waiting  for  replies.  — 

The  question  naturally  arises. 


It  comes  in  hours  of  grief  or  mirth, 

At  the  gates  of  death,  or  the  gates  of  birth ; 

The  question  naturally  arises,  — 
The  question,  " Wherefore ?     Whither?     Why?" 
The  unanswering  earth,  the  silent  sky, 
Stand  dumb,  vouchsafing  no  reply.  — 

The  question  naturally  arises. 


Fate  crooks  its  questioning  finger  joint  — 
A  huge  interrogation  point,  — 

The  question  naturally  arises  ; 
It  motions  on  the  curious  child, 
The  maid,  with  trusting  heart  and  mild, 
The  youth,  with  passions  hot  and  wild ;  — 

The  question  naturally  arises. 

It  comes  to  greatest  and  to  least, 
A  guest  unbidden  at  the  feast.  — 
The  question  naturally  arises. 


THE    QUESTION. 


71 


"  What  means  it  all?  "  the  spectre  saith, 
"  This  fitful,  momentary  breath, 
Choked  in  the  icy  grip  of  death?" 
The  question  naturally  arises. 

We  hear  it  on  that  awful  shore, 
It  mingles  with  its  sullen  roar  ;  — 

The  question  naturally  arises. 
"  What  lies,"  it  asks,  "  beyond  the  mist, 
Those  troubled  waters,  twilight-kissed, 
The  sunset  clouds  of  amethyst  ?" 

The  question  naturally  arises. 


THE   DIPPER   AND    THE   SEA. 

E  held  a  dipper  in  his  hand, 

And  bravely  did  he  ply, 
With  all  the  strength  at  his  command, 
To  dip  the  ocean  dry. 
"And  all  the  ships  that  sail,"  says  he, 

"And  go  from  land  to  land, 
On  the  dry  bottom  of  the  sea 
Shall  sink  into  the  sand. 


"  The  waves  are  powerless  to  resist ; 

Through  me  fulfilled  shall  be 
The  words  of  the  evangelist, 

'There  shall  be  no  more  sea.'  " 
And  so  he  plies  his  dipper  fast, 

And  does  not  cease  to  try, 
As  long  as  strength  and  life  shall  last, 

To  dip  the  ocean  dry. 


And  like  this  madman,  even  we, 

With  little  dippers  try 
To  drain  the  vastness  of  the  sea, 

And  dip  the  ocean  dry. 
The  sea  of  knowledge  with  its  dm 

Before  us  breaks,  and  we,  — 
We  thrust  our  little  dippers  in, 

And  think  we've  drained  the  sea. 


THE  DTPPER  AND    THE   SEA. 


73 


And  bound  within  a  narrow  creed, 

Shut  in  by  walls  and  towers, 
We  deem  we  have  no  further  need,  - 

The  truth  of  God  is  ours. 
Then  let  the  endless  babblers  be, 

Who  for  more  wisdom  cry, 
We've  thrust  our  dippers  in  the  sea, 

And  drained  the  ocean  dry. 


THE    WAY  TO   SLEEPTOWN. 

TT7  HE  town  of  Sleeptovvn  is  not  far, 

In  Timbuctoo  or  China, 
For  it's  right  near  by  in  Blinkton  County, 
In  the  State  of  Drowsylina  ; 
It's  just  beyond  the  Thingumbob  hills, 

Not  far  from  Nodville  Centre, 
But  you  must  be  drawn  thro'  the  Valley  of  Yawn, 
Or  the  town  you  cannot  enter. 
And  this  is  the  way, 
They  say,  they  say. 
That  Baby  goes  to  Sleeptown  ! 

He  starts  from  the  City  of  Odearme, 

Thro'  Boohoo  street  he  totters, 
Until  he  comes  to  Dontcry  Corners 

By  the  shore  of  the  Sleeping  Waters, 
Then  he  comes  to  Johnny-Jump-Up  hills, 

And  the  nodding  Toddlebom  mountains, 
And  straight  does  he  go  thro'  the  Vale  of  Heigho, 

And  drink  from  the  Drowsy  Fountains. 
And  this  is  the  way, 
They  say,  they  say, 

That  Baby  goes  to  Sleeptown  ! 

By  Twilight  Path  thro'  the  Nightcap  Hills 

The  little  feet  must  toddle, 
Thro'  the  dewy  gloom  of  Flyaway  Forest, 

By  the  drowsy  peaks  of  Noddle  ; 


THE    J!'.  I}'    TO   SLEEPTOll'X.  75 


And  never  a  sound  doth  Baby  hear. 

For  not  a  leaf  doth  quiver, 

From  the  Little  Dream  (lap  in  the  Mills  of  Xap 
To  the  Snoozequehanna  River. 
And  this  is  the  way, 
They  say,  they  say, 
That  i  r.by  goes  to  Sleeptown  ! 

Away  lie  flies  over  Bylow  Bridge, 

Through  Lullaby  Lane  to  wander, 
And  on  thro'  the  groves  of  Moonshine  Valley 

By  the  hills  of  Wayoffyondef  j 
And  then  does  the  fairies'  flying  horse 

The  sleepy  Baby  take  up  — 
Until  they  enter  at  Jumpoff  Centre 

The  Peekaboo  A'ale  of  Wakeup. 
And  this  is  the  way, 
They  say,  they  say, 
That  Baby  comes  from  Sleeptown  ! 


MY  ANARCHIST  BOARDER. 


W 


OULD  I  consort  with  Anarchists, 
And  mix  and  drink  and  dine? 
Oh,  yes,  I  board  an  Anarchist  — 
He  is  a  chum  of  mine. 
A  ruthless  enemy  to  law, 

This  boarder  that  I  mention, 
A  friend  to  lawless  unconstraint, 
A  foe  to  all  convention. 


And  though  I  diligently  try 

To  keep  my  home  in  trim, 
I  harbor  this  wild  Anarchist 

And  grow  attached  to  him. 
His  incoherent  creed  by  day 

He  blusters  and  he  babbles ; 
By  night  he  howls  it  in  our  ears, 

Or  garrulously  gabbles. 


The  right  of  private  ownership 

He  strenuously  denies, 
He  rends  and  tears  my  property 

Before  my  very  eyes  ; 
And  in  his  fierce  and  lawless  moods 

He'll  beat  us  and  belay  us  ; 
Oh,  he's  confusion's  champion, 

A  hierarch  of  chaos  ! 


MY  ANARCHIST  BOARDER.  77 


There  are  no  rights  that  he  respects, 

No  sanctity  reveres ; 
Regards  not  customs,  creeds,  nor  texts, 

Experience  nor  years. 
No  laws  or  constitutions  bind 

This  Anarchist  of  ours, 
Nor  popes,  nor  principalities, 

No  potencies,  nor  powers. 

He  is  a  hopeless  radical, 

A  sworn  iconoclast  — 
No  plan  or  purpose  for  to-day, 

No  reverence  for  the  past. 
You  ask  me  why  I  keep  him,  then? 

Well,  I  can  answer,  maybe, 
Because  —  because  he  calls  me  '•'  Dad," 

And  I —  1  call  him  "  Baby." 


THE   SONG    THAT  SILAS  SUNG. 

TV  T  EIGHBOR  SILAS  sung  a  song 
„  I  ^     Every  day  his  whole  life  long, 

Sung  it  gladly  'neath  the  cloud 
That  hung   o'er  him  like  a  shroud ; 
Or  when  sunbeams  with  their  play 
Gleamed  and  glorified  his  way, 
Like  a  shower  of  joy  outflung 
Was  the  song  that  Silas  sung : 

Let  the  howlers  howl, 

And  the  scowlers  scowl, 

And  the  growlers  growl, 
And  the  gruff  gang  go  it; 

But  behind  the  night 

There's  a  plenty  of  light, 

And  everything's  all  right, 
And  I  know  it  ! 

Like  the  battle  drum  to  me 

Was  that  song  of  victory, 

Like  the  flute's  exultant  strain 

'Mid  the  wounded  and  the  slain, 

Like  the  quick  blood-stirring  fife 

On  the  battle-plain  of  life  ; 

Far  and  free  the  echoes  rung 

Of  the  song  that  Silas  sung : 
Let  the  howlers  howl, 
And  the  scowlers  scowl, 
And  the  growlers  growl, 
And  the  gruff  gang  go  it; 


'/•///•:    SO.YG    77/,/7'   -SYA.  IS    Sr.YG.  79 


Jiitt  i:cliind  tiic  night 
There's  a  plenty  of  light, 
Ami  everything's  all  rigiit, 
And  I  know  it .' 

Silas'  soul  has  taken  flight, 
Passed  in  music  through  the  night, 
Through  the  shadow  chill  and  gray 
And  gone  singing  on  its  way  ; 
But  the  quaint  song  that  was  his 
Cheers  the  saddened  silences  ; 
Still  glad  triumph  notes  are  flung 
From  the  song  that  Silas  sung  : 
Let  the  howlers  howl, 
And  tiie  scowlers  scowl, 
And  tiie  growlers  growl, 

And  tiie  gruff  gang  go  it ; 
But  behind  the  night 
Thtrc's  a  plenty  of  light, 
And  everything? s  all  rigiit, 
And  I  know1  it .' 


I 


THE  POET  AT  PLAY. 

SAW  a  poet  in  the  crowd, 
His  voice  was  gay,  his  laugh  was  loud ; 
Perplexed  I  questioned  :   "  Is  this  he, 
The  laurelled  Priest  of  Minstrelsv?  " 


For  his  sweet  rhythmic  words  had  stole 
In  a  strange  music  to  my  soul, 
As  if  from  midnight  deeps  had  rung 
The  accents  of  a  seraph  tongue. 

I  pictured  him  by  woodland  streams, 
A  silent  mystic,  wrapped  in  dreams, 
Who  talked  with  mountains  as  with  men, 
And  with  the  voices  of  the  glen. 

I  deemed  that  all  his  thoughts  were  high 
As  any  star  within  the  sky ; 
As  calm  as  evening  when  caressed 
By  twilight  breezes  from  the  west. 

For  far  abroad  his  songs  had  flown, 
Like  singing  birds,  to  every  zone, 
And  weary  souls  in  toiling  throngs 
Had  learned  to  love  him  for  his  songs. 

And  they  who  sank  'neath  fortune's  frowns, 
Whose  brows  were  crowned  with  iron  crowns, 
Felt  through  the  midnight  of  their  wrongs 
The  noonday  sunlight  of  his  songs. 


THE   POET  AT  PLAY. 


8 1 


But  now,  mid  laughter,  mirth,  and  play 
He  sang  a  village  roundelay, 
Forgetful  of  his  lettered  fame, 
Forgetful  of  his  world-loved  name. 

He  led  the  children  in  their  sports, 
Their  joy  was  more  than  praise  of  courts, 
And  the  glad  laughter  in  their  eyes, 
Than  fickle  fame's  delusive  prize. 

And  then  I  thought,  "  Tis  better  so, 
For  he  who  sings  should  surely  know 
The  heart  he  sings  to,  and  the  soul 
Be  spread  before  him  like  a  scroll." 


THEY  DON'T  MAKE    CONNECTIONS. 

i 'EN   I  was  a  little  kid, 

Not  more  than  three  feet  high, 
I  used  to  try  to  find  the  place 
The  earth  hitched  on  the  sky. 
Yes,  I'd  go  prancin'  roun'  to  find, 

In  frisky,  childish  mirth, 
The  big  suspender  button  by  which 

The  sky  held  up  the  earth. 
But  tho'  I  waltzed  aroun'  like  sin, 

An'  searched  in  all  directions, 
I  allus  foun'  the  earth  an'  sky 

Didn't  seem  to  make  connections. 

Now  w'en  I  see  a  man  purtends 

To  be  all-fired  good, 
An'  most  too  pure  an'  jest  to  live 

In  our  poor  neighborhood  ; 
W'en  he  parades  his  virtues  roun' 

For  everyone  to  note, 
Till  we  expect  to  see  his  wings 

Sprout  through  his  overcoat;  — 
I  say,  *'  Ole  Slyboots,  you're  a  fraud, 

In  spite  of  your  perfections  ; 
I've  allus  foun'  the  earth  an'  sky 

Don't  seem  to  make  connections." 

W'en  I  fight  my  besettin'  sins 

I  have  a  tarnal  rub, 
Jest  like  Archangel  Michael 

W'en  he  fit  with  Beelzebub. 


THEY  DOX'-'T  MAKE    COXXECTIOXS.  83 


So  w'en  a  man  sez  he  is  good 

As  any  ancient  saint, 
W'y  !  all  the  more  he  sez  he  is 

The  more  I  say  he  ain't  I 
For  you  can  box  the  compass  roun', 

An'  go  in  all  directions, 
You'll  allus  find  the  earth  an'  sky 

Don't  seem  to  make  connections. 

Now,  there's  my  wife,  Matildy  Jane, 

She  hain't  no  monstrous  sins, 
She's  allus  tried  to  treat  us  fair,  — 

Me,  Peter  an'  the  twins  : 
]>ut  get  her  on  the  rampage  once 

She  makes  consid'ble  dust, 
We  allus  think  w'en  she  explodes 

The  crack  o'  doom  has  bust  1 
An'  so,  I  say,  go  where  you  will, 

An'  search  in  all  directions, 
You'll  allus  find  the  earth  an'  sky 

Don't  seem  to  make  connections. 


A   FATAL   DISEASE. 

T  T  E  was  a  man  of  giant  length 
(pH  And  strength ; 

(s      With  limbs  strong  as  an  iron  rod, 
And  health  of  an  immortal  god, 
With  courage  that  defied  all  troubles, 
And  spirits  sparkling  o'er  like  bubbles  — 
If  ever  was  a  healthy  man, 
'Twas  Dan. 

But  full  is  fickle  fortune's  smile 

Of  guile  ; 

For  Dan  brought  home  one  day,  alack  ! 
A  patent  medicine  almanac, 
All  full  of  long  and  learned  theses 
Upon  the  symptoms  of  diseases ; 
Dan  read  the  symptoms  great  and  small 

And  had  them  all  ! 

Said  he,  the  while  his  breath  came  quick, 

"  I'm  sick. 

For  if  these  symptoms  tell  me  true, 
I've  surely  got  tic-douloureux, 
The  gastric  fever  and  bronchitis 
And  cerebro- spinal-meningitis. 
Go  fetch  a  lawyer  with  a  quill 

To  make  my  will ! 

"  I've  got  congestion  of  the  brain, 
'Tis  plain. 


A   FATAL   DISEASE. 


No  balm  a  man  like  me  can  ease, 
In  the  last  stage  of  Bright's  disease  ; 
True  symptoms  —  and  all  faith  I  grant  'em  - 
Proclaim  the  cholera  infantum. 
And,  tell  me,  is  that  lawyer  here  ? 
Oh.  dear  !  " 

The  lawyer  came,  wrote  with  his  quill, 

The  will ; 

The  patient  then  turned  on  his  side 
And  in  intensest  torment  died. 
They  wrote  upon  his  mausoleum, 
These  words — and  any  man  can  see  'em,  — 
"  A  guileless  youth,  who  died,  alack  ! 

Of  Almanack  !  " 


THE    MEN    WHO   MISS    THE    TRAIN. 

1LOAF  aroun'  the  depo'  jest  to  see  the  Pullman  scoot, 
An'  to  see  the  people  scamper  w'en  they  hear  the  engine 

toot ; 
But  w'at  makes  the  most  impression  on  my  som'w'at  active 

brain, 

Is  the  careless  men  who  get  there  jest  in  time  to  miss  the 
train. 

An'   some   cuss   the   railroad  comp'ny,  an'  some   loudly  cuss 

their  stars, 

An'  some  jest  gallop  down  the  track  an'  try  to  catch  the  cars ; 
An'    some   with   a  loud   laff  an'  joke   will   poultice   up   their 

pain,  — 
Var'us  kin's  er  people  get  there  jest  in  time  to  miss  the  train. 

An'  there  is  many  deepos  an'  flag-stations  'ithout  name, 
Along   the   Grand   Trunk    Railroad  thet  leads  to  wealth   an' 

fame, 

An'  men  rush  to  these  deepos,  as  fast  as  they  can  fly, 
As  the  Train  of  Oppertunity  jest  goes  a-thunderin'  by. 

They  rush    down    to   the    stations   with   their   hair   all   stood 

on  end, 
As  the   platform   of  the  tail-end  car  goes  whirlin'   roun'  the 

bend ; 
An'  some    men   groan   an'  cry  aloud,  an'   some  conceal  their 

pain, 
W'en  they  find  thet  they  have  got  there  jest  in  time   to  miss 

the  train. 


THE   MEX    WHO  MISS    THE    TKALV. 


But  the  cars  puff  through  the  valleys,  an'  go  a-whirlin'  by, 
An'  float  their  banners  of  w'ite  smoke,  like  flags  of  victory ; 
They  leap  the  flovvin'  rivers,  an'  through  the  tunnels  grope. 
An'  cross  the  Mountains  of  Despair  to  the  Tableland  of  Hope. 

The  Grand  Trunk  Railroad  of  Success,  it  runs  through  every 

clime, 

But  the  Cars  of  Oppertunity  they  go  on  schedule  time, 
An'   never  are   their  brakes  reversed  —  they  won't   back  up 

again 
To  take  the  men  who  get  there  jest  in  time  to  miss  the  train. 


I 


SONGS    OF   THE    CORN. 

HEARD  the  corn  at  noonday, 

And  all  its  rustling  leaves 
Told  summer  tales,  like  swallows 
That  build  beneath  the  eaves. 


As  if  it  drank  the  sunshine 

And  gave  it  forth  in  strong, 
Unfaltering,  leafy  accents 

Of  multitudinous  song,  — 

It  sang  a  song  of  victory, 

Of  triumph  over  fears ; 
And  waved  its  silken  banners 

And  clashed  its  leafy  spears. 

I  heard  the  corn  at  midnight ; 

In  tones  of  sad  dismay, 
It  sang  like  those  who  sing  to-day 

The  songs  of  yesterday. 

I  heard  the  shadowy  sobbings 

Of  unreturning  hosts, 
The  march  of  phantom  soldiery, 

The  tread  of  viewless  ghosts. 

And  I  walked  with  reverent  footsteps 
Through  the  maize  field  in  the  morn, 

I  knew  the  spirits  of  pain  had  wept 
All  night  among  the  corn. 


THE   BROOK  BENEATH   THE   SNOW. 

AY  down  in  dad's  ol'  medder,  where  the  pussy  willers 
grow, 

I   used   to  go  an'   listen  to  the  brook   beneath   the 
snow ; 

Above  I  heerd  the  roarin'  win'  an'  saw  the  snow-gust  whirl ; 
But  the  brook  beneath  the  snow  an'  ice  danced  singin'  like  a 
girl. 

I'd  put  my  ear  down  to  the  ice,  I  didn'  min'  the  col', 
An'  w'en  I  heerd  its  music  there  wuz  summer  in  my  soul  ! 
An'  we'n  dad  licked  me,  an'  my  heart  'ud  bile  an'  overflow, 
I   would   go   an'   hear  the    music   of  the  brook   beneath   the 
snow. 


An'  then  my  sobs  'ud  change  to  shouts,  an'  sorrer  change  to 

glee, 

For  it  strewed  along  its  music  from  the  mountain  to  the  sea  ; 
An'  I'd  stretch  my  ear  to  hear  it,  an'  my  heart  'ud  swell  an' 

glow, 
W'en  I  listened  to  the  music  of  the  brook  beneath  the  snow. 


Since  then  the  wintry  blasts  of  life  have  blown  me  here  an' 

there, 
An'   snowstorms  they  have  blocked  my  way  an'  hedged  me 

everywhere ; 

But  sheltered  from  the  harrycane,  within  the  valley  low, 
I  listen  for  the  music  of  the  brook  beneath  the  snow. 


92       THE  BROOK  BENEATH  THE  SNOW. 

For   I  know  beneath  the  snow  an'  ice  that  there  is  golden 

sand, 
By  that  glorious  streak  uv  melody  that  wiggles  through  the 

land; 
The  storm  beats  hard ;  the  wind  is  high  ;  I  cannot  hear  it 

blow, 
For  I  listen  to  the  music  of  the  brook  beneath  the  snow. 


NO   HOPE   FOR   ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

TT  T  the  debatin'  club  las'  night  we  all  discussed  a  cure 
J/M     "  Fer  the  debilitated  state  of  I^nglish  lit'rachure," 

'•The  stuff  thet's  writ  fer  folks,"  I  said,  "don't  move 

'em  an'  delight  'em, 

Because  the  folks  who  write  the  things  don't  know  enough  to 
write  em." 


"  The   folks   who   write,   they   stuff  their   heads   in   some  big 

cyclopedy, 
Wich  ain't   no   place  fer  mental  food  to  feed  the  poor  an' 

needy, 
They're    huntin'  on    an    em'ty    shelf,    like    poor    ol'    Mother 

Hubbard, 
And  go  right  by  the  open  door  of  Mother  Natur's  cupboard. 

They  crawl  into  some  libery,  far  from  the  worl's  inspection, 
Bury  themselves  in  books  be-end  all  hope  of  resurrection ; 
They  cry  out  from  their  tombs,  in  w'ich  no  sun  nor  star  can 

glisten, 
An'  weep  because  the  livin'  worF  don't  fin'  no  time  to  listen." 


Then  Elder  Pettengill  he  asked,  "  Can  you  sejest  a  cure 

Fer  the  debilitated  state  of  English  lit'rachure?" 

"  Ain't    none :    our    authors'   ignorance    is    far    too    dark  for 

lightin', 
While  we  who  know  enough  to  write  hain't  got  no  time  for 

writin'.' 


THE    OLD  MAN  SINGS. 

THERE'S  a  wobble  in  the  jingle  and  a  stumble  in  the 
metre, 
And  the  accent  might  be  clearer  and  the  volume  be 

completer, 
And   there   might  be  much  improvement  in  the  stress  and 

intonation, 

And  a  polish  might  be  added  to  the  crude  pronunciation ; 
But  there's  music,  like  the  harper's  played  before  the  ancient 

kings, 
When  the  old  man  takes  the  fiddle  and  goes  feeling  for  the 

strings, 

There  is  laughter  choked  with  teardrops  when  the  old  man 
sings. 

And    we  form   a  ring  about  him  and  we  place  him  in  the 

middle, 
And  he  hugs  up  to  his  withered  cheek  the  poor  old  broken 

fiddle, 
And  a  smile  comes  on  his  features  as  he  hears  the  strings' 

vibration, 

And  he  sings  the  songs  of  long  ago  with  faltering  intonation ; 
And  phantoms  from  the  distant  past  his  broken  music  brings, 
And  trooping  from  their  dusty  graves  come  long-forgotten 

things, 
When  he  tunes  the  ancient  fiddle  and  the  old  man  sings. 

We  let  the  broken  man  play  on  upon  the  broken  fiddle, 
And   we   press   around   to   hear  him,  as  he  sits  there  in  the 
middle ; 


THE    OLD   MAN  SINGS. 


95 


The  sound  of  many  wedding  bells  in  all  the  music  surges,  — 
Then  we  hear  their  clamor  smothered  by  the  sound  of  funeral 

dirges. 

'Tis  the  story  of  his  lifetime  that  in  the  music  rings  — 
And  every  life's  a  blind  man's  tune  that's  played  on  broken 

strings  — 
And  so  we  sit  in  silence  while  the  old  man  sings. 


THE    TURNPIKE  ROAD. 

'EN  I  want  to  go  to  Boston,  some  thirty  miles  away, 
I  hitch  the  mare  at  4  A.  M.,  an'  start  at  peep  o'  day ; 
Thro'  cross-road  lanes  she  pulls  along  as  if  she  felt 

her  load, 

An'  don't  get  down  to  business  till  she  strikes  the  turnpike 
road. 

But  w'en  she  strikes  the  turnpike  road,  to  trot  is  on'y  play, 
An'  she  sniffs  a  smell  of  Boston  w'en  it's  fifteen  miles  away, 
She  fergits  her  heaves  an'  spavins  an'  don't  seem  to  min'  her 

load, 
But   jest   cracks  thro'    the    atmosphere    along   the    turnpike 

road. 

An'  the  rat-tat  of  her  hoof-beats  is  like  the  rum-tum-tum 

W'en  armies  march  to  victory  behin'  the  battle  drum ; 

W'en  she  pints  her  nose  to  Boston,  she  needs  no  spur  nor 

goad, 
But  whirls   the   worl'   beneath  her  feet  along   the    turnpike 

road. 

An'  men  are  jest  like  my  oF  mare,  along  the  cross-road  lanes, 
They  have   no   ginger  in  their  blood,  no   lightnin'   in  their 

brains  : 
An'   they  get  apt  to  kick  an'  balk,  an'  groan  beneath  their 

load, 
An'  loaf  an'  cuss  their  stars,  unless  they  strike  the  turnpike 

road. 


THE    TURNPIKE   ROAD. 


97 


But    don't  get  discouraged,  fellers,  don't  kick,  an'  sheer  an' 

shirk ; 
The   turnpike  road  is  jest  be-end  the  big  swamps  of   Hard 

Work. 

In  Lazy  Lane  an'  Whiskey  Alley  don't  linger  with  yer  load, 
They'll  land  you  in  the  bogs  at  last,  far  from  the  turnpike 

road. 

An'  don't  try  Mortgage  Avenue,  thet  lands  in  swamps  of  Debt. 
W'en   you    see    their    flamin'    guideboards,   jest    keep    your 

peepers  shet ; 

An'  don't  loaf  on  Pleasure  Common,  but  buckle  to  your  load, 
An'  jest  keep  peggin'  thro'  the  dust,  an'  strike  the  turnpike 

road. 

Don't  linger  at  the  cross-roads,  an'  loaf  roun'  in  the  lanes, 
The  worl's  highways  are  open  to  men  of  pluck  an'  brains ; 
Trot  on  an'  git  yer  second  wind,  don't  mind  yer  heavy  load, 
An'  dash  out  with  a  spanking  pace  upon  the  turnpike  road. 


WHERE    THE   SUN   GOES  DOWN. 

THE  road  that  passed  his  father's  door 
He  thought  stretched  on  forevermore ; 
Through  fragrant  vales  of  tangled  grass, 
O'er  many  a  misty  mountain  pass, 
Out  into  wonders  unexpressed 
Beyond  the  cloudlands  of  the  West, 
Through  lands  and  cities  of  renown, 
To  where  the  mighty  sun  goes  down. 

And  so  he  left  his  father's  door 
And  said,  "  I  will  return  no  more." 

He  travelled  forth  beyond  the  bridge, 
He  climbed  the  lofty  mountain  ridge, 
He  passed  the  river  and  the  town 
To  find  out  where  the  sun  went  down ; 
But  when  he  sank  at  close  of  day, 
The  sunset  still  was  far  away. 

He  trod  through  many  a  wind-swept  glen ; 

In  mighty  towns  he  mixed  with  men ; 

The  breath  of  many  an  alien  breeze 

Tossed  him  o'er  unfamiliar  seas  ; 

He  breathed  the  spicy  gale  that  blows 

From  Southern  archipelagoes. 

And  in  the  quiet  Eastern  calm 

He  sought  sweet  sleep  beneath  the  palm, 

But  when  he  looked  at  close  of  day, 

The  sunset  still  was  far  away. 


WHERE    THE   SUN   GOES  DOWX.  99 

He  thought  to  leave  his  father's  door 
And  travel  on  forevermore. 

A  withered  pilgrim,  bent  and  gray, 

Kept  on  his  unfamiliar  way. 

Deep  versed  in  lands,  a  man  of  men, 

A  universal  citizen, 

He  circled  all  the  earth  :   once  more 

He  stood  before  his  father's  door  — 

Though  many  years  his  father  slept 

Upon  the  mountain- side,  unwept  — 

He  stood  there  wrinkled,  worn,  and  brown, 

He  stood  there  as  the  sun  went  down, 

And  in  the  twilight  dim  and  gray 

The  sunset  was  not  far  away. 

Out  from  the  many  millions  hurled 
He  sank  down,  weary  of  the  world, 
With  all  his  tired  journey  o'er, 
To  die  beside  his  father's  door, 
And  said,  a  sad  smile  on  his  brow, 
"  I  pass  beyond  the  sunset  now." 


"HULLO!" 

'EN  you  see  a  man  in  woe, 
Walk  right  up  and  say  "  hullo  !  " 
Say  "hullo,"  an'  "how  d'ye  do  !  " 
"  How's  the  world  a  usin'  you?" 
Slap  the  fellow  on  his  back, 
Bring  your  han'  down  with  a  whack ; 
Waltz  right  up,  an'  don't  go  slow, 
Grin  an'  shake  an'  say  "  hullo  !  " 


Is  he  clothed  in  rags  ?  O  sho  ! 
Walk  right  up  an'  say  "  hullo  !  " 
Rags  is  but  a  cotton  roll 
Jest  for  wrappin'  up  a  soul ; 
An'  a  soul  is  worth  a  true 
Hale  an'  hearty  "  how  d'ye  do  !  " 
Don't  wait  for  the  crowd  to  go, 
Walk  right  up  and  say  "  hullo  !  " 


W'en  big  vessels  meet,  they  say, 
They  saloot  an'  sail  away. 
Jest  the  same  are  you  an'  me, 
Lonesome  ships  upon  a  sea ; 
Each  one  sailing  his  own  jog 
For  a  port  beyond  the  fog. 
Let  your  speakin'  trumpet  blow, 
Lift  your  horn  an'  cry  "hullo  !  " 


"HULLO  !" 

Say  "hullo,"  an'  "how  d'ye  do  !  " 

Other  folks  are  good  as  you. 

Wen  you  leave  your  house  of  clay, 

Wanderin'  in  the  Far- Away, 

Wen  you  travel  through  the  strange 

Country  t'other  side  the  range, 

Then  the  souls  you've  cheered  will  know 

Who  you  be,  an'  say  "  hullo  !  " 


103 


TWO   KINDS    OF  MEN. 

OW  yer  garding  on  a  hillside  thet's  slantin'  to  the  south, 
Ye '11  raise  such  luscious  garding  sass,  'twill  melt  right  in 

yer  mouth ; 

An'  cabbidges  an'  cowcumbers  an'  ev'ry  kine  er  plant 
Jest  hump   theirselves  an'   grow  like  grass  upon  a  southern 
slant. 

But  take  the  tough  ol'  red  oak  tree,  an'  it  will  droop  an'  blight. 
Unless  it  has  the  col'  north  wind  to  wrastle  with  an'  fight ; 
It  stumps  the  rough  northeaster,  defies  the  wind  and  rain, 
An'  grips  the  bottom  of  the  hills,  an'  fights  the  harricane. 

Some  men  are  jest  like  garding  sass,  jest  like  the  cabbidge 

plant, 

They  on'y  grow  upon  the  hills  thet  hev  a  southward  slant ; 
They  grow,  like  pigweeds  in  July,  an'  on'y  live  for  fun, 
An'  hoi'  their  mouths  up  toward  the  south,  an'  jest  fill  up  'ith 

sun. 

An'  some  are  like  the  tough  red  oak,  all  seamed  'ith  many  a 

scar, 
By  fightin'  storms  thet  smite  the  hills  beneath  the  northern 

star ; 
The  whirlwinds  seem  to  make  'em  strong,  the  cyclones  make 

em'  grow ; 
They  grow  to  giants  w'ile  they  fight  the  lightnin'  an'  the  snow. 


,     COLUMBUS. 

/COLUMBUS  was,  they  tell  us  now, 
I    <?\        A  man  of  flaw  and  fleck,  — 

A  man  who  steered  a  pirate  prow, 

And  trod  a  slaver's1  deck. 
In  narrow  bigot  blindness  curled, 

Cruel  and  vain  was  he  — 
To  such  was  given  to  lift  a  world 

From  out  the  darkened  sea. 

Though  weak  and  cruel,  vain,  untrue, 

From  all  earth's  high  and  low 
God  picked  this  man,  His  work  to  do, 

Four  hundred  years  ago. 
There  in  the  distance  standeth  he, 

Bound  on  his  mighty  quest, 
This  rough  old  Admiral  of  the  Sea, 

Still  pointing  toward  the  West. 

There  stands  he  on  his  westward  prow, 

A  man  entirely  strong ; 
So  great,  the  bald  truth  spoken  now 

Can  never  do  him  wrong. 
Though  slaver,  pirate,  he  might  be, 

He  had  that  gift  of  fate,  — 
That  wise  and  sane  insanity 

That  makes  the  great  man  great. 


FATHER'S  JOURNEY. 

HE  GOES. 

WHEN  father  goes  to  Gunjiwump 
He  keeps  the  family  on  a  jump. 
Jim  hauls  the  wagon  in  the  yard 
To  grease  the  axles  up.  with  lard ; 
He  rubs  the  old  horse  down  with  care, 
And  gets  the  whip  in  good  repair ; 
He  mends  the  harness  up  with  string 
And  makes  it  strong  as  anything ; 
He  cleans  the  wheels  up  at  the  pump, 
When  father  goes  to  Gunjiwump. 

He  scrapes  and  scours  for  hours  and  hours, 
And  flits  and  flutters  on  the  jump, 

For  we  all  have  to  worry  and  hurry  and  skurry 
When  father  goes  to  Gunjiwump. 

Wrhen  father  goes  to  Gunjiwump 

He  doesn't  go  like  any  gump ; 

He  has  his  boots  greased  up  in  style 

With  the  best  kind  of  linseed  "ile." 

This  is  the  task  for  little  Joe, 

Of  lamentation  and  of  woe  ; 

He  bears  on  hard  and  rubs  it  in 

With  mutterings,  which  to  speak  were  sin ; 

He  gives  the  cowhides  many  a  thump, 

And  hates  the  name  of  Gunjiwump. 


FATHER'S  JOURNEY.  107 

For  it  just  doubles  our  toils  and  troubles, 

And  masses  them  a  solid  lump ; 
'Tis  an  aggregation  of  tribulation 

When  father  goes  to  Gunjiwump. 

When  father  goes  to  Gunjiwump 
They  gather  round  him  in  a  clump, 
Matilda,  Martha,  Jane  and  Sue, 
Each  with  some  special  task  to  do. 
Matilda  tries  to  part  his  hair, 
Marth  gets  his  whiskers  in  repair,, 
Jane  fixes  his  suspenders  right, 
And  Sue  she  gets  his  collar  tight ; 
They  fuss  and  fuddle  on  the  jump 
When  father  goes  to  Gunjiwump. 
They  fix  his  tackle,  and  coax  and  cackle, 

And  gather  round  him  in  a  clump  ; 
They  fasten  and  button  whatever  he's  got  on 

When  father  goes  to  Gunjiwump. 

We  all  sink  down,  a  helpless  lump, 

When  father's  gone  to  Gunjiwump ; 

We  only  lie  around  and  shirk, 

For  we  are  all  too  tired  to  work. 

But  mother  says,   "  He  looked  as  nice 

As  if  he  had  been  kept  on  ice  ; 

Not  many  young  swells  look  so  trim 

And  dickyclandyfied  as  him  ; 

To  beat  his  get-up,  I  will  stump 

Most  any  dude  in  Gunjiwump." 

Though  bruised  and  battered,  we  are  all  flattered., 

A  self-congratulating  clump ; 
In  glowing  phrases  we  sound  his  praises 

When  father's  gone  to  Gunjiwump. 


io8  FATHER'S  JOURNEY. 

HE  COMES. 

When  father  comes  from  Gunjiwump 

He  keeps  the  family  on  a  jump. 

Like  Caesar  on  his  triumph  car, 

Young  Tom  espies  him  from  afar, 

And  jubilantly  runs  from  home 

To  bid  him  welcome  into  Rome. 

He  spies  him  by  the  alder  clump, 

The  conqueror  from  Gunjiwump. 

With  his  trophies  of  candy  he  makes  himself  handy, 

And  on  the  new  drum  does  he  joyously  thump. 
Like  an  army  with  banners,  a  host  with  hosannas, 

Does  father  come  from  Gunjiwump. 

When  father  comes  from  Gunjiwump 

We  run  to  meet  him  by  the  pump, — 

Matilda,  Martha,  Jane  and  Sue, 

Each  with  her  special  hullabaloo ; 

And  quickly  scoots  out  from  the  shed 

The  swift  and  spinning  form  of  Ned. 

It  seems  like  Gabriel  with  his  trump 

When  father  comes  from  Gunjiwump. 

We  fuss  and  flutter,  and  spurt  and  sputter,  — 

All  dull,  domestic  duties  dump  ; 
'Tis  a  jubilation,  a  glad  vacation 

When  father  comes  from  Gunjiwump. 

When  father  comes  from  Gunjiwump 

We  gather  round  him  in  a  clump  ; 

Matilda  gets  a  gingham  dress 

To  aggravate  her  loveliness, 

Marth  gets  her  shoes ;  a  colored  skein 

Of  cotton  yarn  for  sister  Jane. 


FATHER'S   JOURNEY.  109 

For  Sue  and  ma  his  pockets  dump 

A  mighty  pack  from  Gunjiwump. 

And  we  spread  each  trophy  upon  the  "  sofy," 

A  self-congratulating  clump, 
And  talk  and  clatter,  and  shout  and  chatter, 

When  father  comes  from  Gunjiwump. 

When  father  comes  from  Gunjiwump, 

He  throws  his  clothing  in  a  clump, 

His  jacket  on  the  cellar  door, 

His  boots  and  collar  on  the  floor. 

His  vesture,  in  sad  disarray, 

We  put  to  rights  some  time  next  day. 

Tom  says  it  makes  the  family  "hump  " 

When  father  comes  from  Gunjiwump. 

But  we're  glad  of  the  worry,  the  hurry  and  skurry, 

That  keeps  us  on  the  constant  jump, 
Each  thinks  of  the  trophy  that  lies  on  the  "sofy" 

When  father  comes  from  Gunjiwump. 


NO   FOREIGNERS  NEED   APPLY. 

TT7  HE  Anti-Immigration  club  met  at  McDougall's  store, 
9  And  swore  to  keep  all  foreigners  from  fair  Columbia's 

shore. 
There  was  Pat  McCoy,   Hans  Schwatzenmeyer,  Won  Lung, 

Monsieur  Le  Bounce, 

And   an    exiled  Russian   Nihilist  whose   name  you  couldn't 
pronounce. 

"  We'll  keep  them  bloody  furriners,  begorra,  where  they  be, 

Atother  side  the  wather,  sors,"  said  Michael  Pat  McGee ; 

"  Dhose  Dootchmans   mans  moost  shtay  avay  und  keep  dis 

coundtry  oudt, 
Nor  coom,"  said  Hans,  "to  shteal  mine  beer,  or  eat  mine 

sauerkraut."' 

"  Oui,  messieurs,"  said  Monsieur  Le  Bounce,  "  dees  countree 

ees  la  belle, 

La  grande,  la  grosse,  la  magnifique,  ve  love  it  well,  ver'  well ! 
Ve  keep  de  Frenchmen  from  its  shore  and  leev  in  quiet  ease, 
And  then,  like  true-born  Yankees,  ve  vill  eat  our  frogs  in 

peace  ! " 

"  The    blarsted    Britisher   must   go,"    said   John   Bull  Jinks, 

"  must  go ; 
Faw  —  aw  —  we  have  no  room,  no  space  faw  aliens,  doncher- 

know." 
"John    Chinaman    we'll   dlive   away,"   said    Sam  \Ving   Lee, 

"  and  then, 
We  Melican  folks  will  have  no  men  but  just  us  Melican  men." 


STAN'    UP  AN'    GET  HIT. 

THIS  life  is  a  fight  that  has  got  to  be  fit. 
The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  stan'  up  an'  get  hit, — 
Stan'  up,  like  John   L.,  through  the  bruises  an'  pain, 
An'  not  dodge  and  skedaddle  an'  skulk,  like  Kilrain ; 
Jest  square  off  with  fate  for  the  set-to  of  life, 
An'  keep  your  fists  clinched  for  the  tug  of  the  strife. 
Jest  tighten  your  belt,  pull  the  buckle  a  bit, 
Stagger  back  from  the  blow,  an'  stan'  up  an'  get  hit ! 

Luck  loves  the  hard  hitter  and  glorifies  grit, 

An'  smiles  on  the  man  who  Stan's  up  an'  gets  hit ; 

Tho'  fate  strikes  out  strong,  with  a  blow  'twixt  the  eyes, 

It  loves  the  stout  soul  who  still  fights  and  defies. 

The  fight  is  not  gained  by  the  strong  or  the  fleet, 

But  by  the  grim  chap  who  don't  know  he  is  beat. 

This  life  is  a  fight  that  has  got  to  be  fit. 

The  best  thing  you  can  do  is  stan'  up  an'  get  hit. 

Wen  you  see  the  blow  comin',  don't  falter  and  flit,  — 
Jest  strike  back  yerself  an'  stan'  up  an'  get  hit. 
Though  fate  is  a  fighter  that  never  will  fly. 
Don't  throw  up  the  sponge  till  yer  ready  to  die  ; 
Tho'  at  times  yer  eyes  swim,  yer  head  whirls  like  a  top 
Till  yer  ready  ter  die,  don't  get  ready  ter  drop, 
But  feel  thro'  the  darkness,  an'  brace  up  a  bit  — 
Jest  pray  for  more  strenk,  an'  stan'  up  an'  get  hit  ! 


FAMILY  FINANCIERING. 

THEY  tell  me  you  work  for  a  dollar  a  day,  — 
How  is  it  you  clothe  your  six  boys  on  such  pay?" 

"  I  know  you  will  think  it  conceited  and  queer, 
But  I  do  it  because  I'm  a  good  financier. 

"  There's  Pete,  John,  Joe,  Jim,  William,  and  Ned, 
A  half  dozen  boys  to  be  clothed  and  be  fc  d. 

"  I  buy  for  them  all  good,  plain  victuals  to  eat, 
But  clothing — I  only  buy  clothing  for  Pete. 

"  When  Pete's  clothes  are  too  small  for  him  to  get  on, 
My  wife  makes  'em  over  and  gives  'em  to  John. 

"When  for  John,  who  is  ten,  they  have  grown  out  of  date, 
She  just  makes  'em  over  for  Jim,  who  is  eight. 

"  When  for  Jim  they've  become  too  ragged  to  fix, 
She  just  makes  'em  over  for  Joe,  who  is  six. 

"  And  when  little  Joseph  can  wear  'em  no  more, 
She  just  makes  'em  over  for  Bill,  who  is  four. 

"  And  when  for  young  Bill  they  no  longer  will  do, 
She  just  makes  'em  over  for  Ned,  who  is  two. 


FAMIL  Y  FINANCIERING. 


"  So  you  see  if  I  get  enough  clothing  for  Pete, 
The  family  is  furnished  with  clothing  complete." 

"  But  when  Ned  has  got  through  with  the  clothing,  and  when 
He  has  thrown  it  aside  —  what  d'ye  do  with  it  then?" 

"  Why,  once  more  we  go  round,  the  circle  complete, 
And  begin  to  use  it  for  patches  for  Pete." 


UNCLE   EBEN'S    CONSERVATISM. 

^  1  NCLE  EBEN  was  careful  in  all  that  he  said, 

/  He  was  never  pronounced  and  dogmatic ; 

If  he  was  as  mad  as  a  hornet  at  bay, 

He  couldn't  be  sure  and  emphatic. 
He  thought  it  was  best  to  go  sure  and  go  slow, 
And  always  take  time  for  his  whiskers  to  grow, 

And  his  blame  or  his  praise  would  end  with  this  phrase 

"  I  dunno  as  I  know ;  I  dunno." 


When  his  neighbors  grew  wild  in  political  strife, 

And  asked  his  opinion  about  it  — 
"I  dunno  but  it  is,  I  dunno  but  it  ain't," 

He  would  slowly  declare  ;  "but  I  doubt  it." 
Then  he'd  pause  a  long  time,  scratch  his  head  and  lay  low, 
For  it  took  quite  a  while  for  his  language  to  flow, 

But  at  length  he  would  say,  in  a  calm  kind  of  way : 

"  I  dunno  as  I  know  ;  I  dunno." 


You  might  pelt  him  with  truth,  you  might  stone  him  with  facts, 

You  could  crush  him  with  strong  demonstration, 
And  teachers  and  preachers  and  lawyers  could  talk,  — 

He  would  have  just  the  same  hesitation  ; 
He  would  still  scratch  his  head,  undecided  and  slow, 
But  no  flush  of  conviction  his  face  would  o'erflow, 

But  slowly  he'd  say,  in  his  old  chronic  way : 

"  I  dunno  as  I  know ;  I  dunno." 


UNCLE   E BEN'S    CONSERVATISM. 

'•'I  dunno  as  I  know,  I  dunno  as  I  know," 

The  refrain  of  his  song  of  existence. 
But  we  loved  the  old  fellow — after  he  died 

And  his  soul  wandered  off  in  the  distance. 
Then  we  thought,  were  we  wiser  and  less  fond  of  show, 
Less  weak  and  less  proud  of  our  work  here  below, 

Like  him  we  would  say  every  day,  every  day  : 

':  I  dunno  as  I  know;  I  dunno." 


'   TWO   FRIENDS. 

I  LIVED  alone  within  a  mighty  city, 
The  crowds  that  come  and  go  ; 
'Mid  all  its  throngs,  the  foolish  and  the  witty, 
I  had  no  friend  or  foe. 

There  were  two  men,  within  that  mighty  city, 

Came  to  me  from  the  throng ; 
One  loved  me  with  a  love  akin  to  pity, 

The  other's  hate  was  strong. 

The  lover  and  the  hater  dwelt  beside  me, 

Passed  through  the  selfsame  gate  ; 
And  neither,  in  their  passing-by,  denied  me 

The  look  of  love  or  hate. 

So  many  months  within  that  mighty  city 

I  loved  my  friend  full  well ; 
But  him,  my  foe,  for  him  I  felt  no  pity  — 

But  the  deep  hate  of  hell. 

One  morning,  in  the  twilight,  o'er  the  city 

There  came  an  icy  breath  : 
My  friend  had  passed  beyond  my  love  and  pity, 

The  border-land  of  death. 

Then  was  I  lonely,  and  the  way  grew  dreary ; 

I  grimly  fought  with  fate, 
And  cherished,  with  my  loneliness  aweary, 

Dead  love  and  living  hate. 


TWO   FRIEXDS.  117 


I  sought  his  grave  to  whom  my  heart  was  mated  — 

My  friend,  the  good  and  brave  ; 
And  there  I  saw  the  form  of  him  I  hated, 

Bent,  weeping,  o'er  his  grave. 

And  then  he  told  me  that,  in  all  the  city, 

But  me  and  him  below, 
From  all  the  throngs  that  needed  God's  sweet  pity, 

He  had  no  friend  or  foe. 

And  now  we  live  within  the  selfsame  city, 

No  other  friends  we  crave  ; 
Our  love  is  strong  that  sprang  from  human  pity, 

Above  the  dead  man's  grave. 


EMERSON   CORRECTED. 

MAN  named  Em'son,  so  they  say, 
Got  off  a  purty  thing  one  day, 
About  a  chap  —  I  don't  know  who- 

Who  "  builded  better  than  he  knew." 

In  spite  of  Em'son,  now,  I  swan, 

He  was  built  on  a  cur'us  plan, 

Accordin'  to  a  strange  idee 

Thet  don't  at  all  resemble  me ; 

In  spite  of  all  that  I  can  do 

I've  builded  worser  than  I  knew. 

I  was  a  young  and  lazy  lout, 

But  had  my  palace  all  planned  out ; 

Its  beauties  never  can  be  told  — 

Rosewood,  mahogerny  and  gold  ; 

It  was  a  scrumptious  sight  to  see 

With  all  its  gilt  an'  filigree. 

But  my  real  house  scarce  stops  the  rain, 

An'  has  an  old  hat  in  the  pane  ; 

I  did  the  best  that  I  could  do, 

But  builded  worser  than  I  knew. 

I  used  to  build  my  stately  ships 

An'  launch  'em  gran'ly  from  the  slips, 

An'  in  my  dreams  did  I  behold 

Their  freight  of  ivery  an'  gold. 

Oh,  they  swep'  gran'ly  roun'  the  Horn, 

An'  rode  the  ocean  like  a  swan. 


EMERSON   CORKE  CTED. 


119 


But  the  real  ship  I  set  afloat 
Was  nothing  but  a  leaky  boat, 
Without  the  scantest  thread  er  sail  — 
I  bale  it  with  an  oF  tin  pail ; 
But  for  a  fishing  smack  'twill  do. 
I  builded  worser  than  I  knew. 

Yes,  Mr.  Em 'son,  very  few 
Have  builded  better  than  they  knew  ; 
Tis  ten  to  one,  howe'er  we  watch, 
We'll  make  a  bungle  an'  a  botch. 
It  ain't  because  I  don't  know  how, 
To  set  the  beams  from  stern  to  bow, 
But  my  han'  trembles  so,  I  vum, 
I  cannot  get  the  timbers  plumb  ; 
An'  so  it  is,  my  life  all  through, 
I've  builded  worser  than  I  knew. 


THE   ELDER'S  SERMON. 

0UR  elder  told  us  yesterday,  we  had  not  learned  to  live 
Until  we  learned  how  blessed  'tis  to  pardon  and  forgive  ; 
The  dear,  sweet,  precious  words  he  spake  like  heavenly 

manna  fell ; 

The  perfect  peace  they  brought  our  hearts  no  human  words 
can  tell. 


"  Love  brings  millennial  peace,"  he  said  ;  and,  though  my  lips 

were  dumb, 

I  still  kept  shouting  in  my  soul,  "  Amen,"  and  "  Let  it  come  !  " 
"  When  men  forgive  all  other  men,  the  year  of  jubilee 
Will  dawn  upon  the  world,"  he  said.     I  said,  "  So  let  it  be." 


"  So  love  your  neighbor  as  yourself,"  he  then  begun  again, 
And  Silas  Fitz,  across  the  aisle,  he  shouted  out,  "  Amen  !  " 
What  right  had  he  to  yell  "Amen,"  the  low-toned  measly 

hound  ! 
Who  took  my  cow,  my  new  milch  cow,  and  locked  her  in  the 

pound  ! 


The  low-down,  raw-boned,  homely  crank,  a  lunkhead  and  a 

lout, 
Whose  love  and  grace  and  heart  and  soul  have  all  been  rusted 

out  — 

To  sit  there  in  the  sanctuary  and  holler  out  "  Amen  !  " 
If  I  could  choke  the  rascal  once  he'd  never  shout  again  ! 


7Y/£   ELDER'S   SERMON. 


One  day  his  dog  came  by  my  house  :  I  called  the  brute  inside, 
Gave   him  a  chunk   of  meat  to  eat,  and  he  crawled  off  and 

died. 
He  just  crawled   off  and  died  right  then.     Says  I,  "  I'll  let 

him  see, 
No  long-legged  simpleton  like  him  can  get  the  best  of  me." 


But,  oh,  that   sermon  !  —  I  would   love    to   hear  it    preached 

again, 

About  forgiveness,  charity  and  love  of  fellow  men. 
I  should  have  felt  as  if  I  basked  in  Heaven's  especial  smile, 
If  that  blamed  villain,  Silas  Fitz,  hadn't  sat  across  the  aislt. 


SHORTEM  SHY  AND   HERBERT  SPENCER. 

O^  HORTEM    SHY  plays  round  my  knee 
/^N       While  I  read  Herbert  Spencer, 
But  still  the  more  I  read  and  read, 

My  ignorance  grows  denser ; 
For  Shortem  Shy  decries  my  taste, 

And  tells  me  every  minute, 
"  Say,  papa,  I  don't  like  that  book, 

There  ain't  no  lions  in  it." 


Now  Herbert  Spencer  is  a  great, 

A  world-compelling  thinker ; 
No  heavy  plummet  line  of  truth 

Goes  deeper  than  his  sinker. 
But  one  man  reads  his  work  way  through 

For  thousands  that  begin  it, 
They  leave  one-half  the  leaves  uncut  — 

"There  ain't  no  lions  in  it." 


The  age-old  errors  in  their  den 

Does  Herbert  Spencer  throttle, 
And  ranks  with  Newton,  Bacon,  Kant, 

And  ancient  Aristotle. 
The  mighty  homage  of  the  few  — 

These  towering  giants  win  it ; 
The  millions  shun  their  hunting-ground, 

"There  ain't  no  lions  in  it." 


SHORT  EM  SHY  AND  HERBERT  SPENCER. 


12$ 


I  leave  this  metaphysic  swamp, 
Thick  grown  with  sturdy  scions, 

And  roam  the  Meadows  of  Romance 
With  Shortem  and  his  lions. 

He  brings  his  gaudy  Noah's  Ark  book 
And  begs  me  to  begin  it ; 


"  Better  than  Hubbut  Fencer  book, 
That  ain't  no  lions  in  it. 


"  Now  wead  about  the  efalunt 
So  big  he  scares  the  people  ; 

An'  wead  about  the  kangerwoo 
Who  jumps  up  on  the  'teeple." 


124  SHORT  EM  SHY  AND  HERBERT  SPENCER. 

So  I  take  up  the  Noah's  Ark  book 

And  sturdily  begin  it, 
And  read  about  the  "  efalunts  " 

And  lions  that  are  in  it. 

Shorten!  will  grow  in  soberness, 

His  life  become  intenser, 
Some  day  he'll  drop  his  "  efalunts  " 

And  take  up  Herbert  Spencer. 
But  life  can  have  no  happier  years 

Than  glad  years  that  begin  it, 
And  life  sometimes  grows  dull  and  tame 

That  has  no  lions  in  it. 


SOMETIME    ORUTHER. 

1    KINDER  suppose  that  we  oughter  to  be  good 
To-day,  an'  this  hour  an'  this  very  minute  ; 
We  oughter  be  perfect ;  I  s'pose  thet  we  would, 
If  it  warn't  sich  a  pesky  hard  thing  to  begin  it. 
But  we're  goin'  to  wheel  right  about  face  bimeby, 
An'  all  of  our  weaknesses  thoroughly  smother ; 
Never  cuss  nor  deceive,  never  swindle  nor  lie  — 
To-morrer,  or  nex'  day,  or  sometime  oruther  ! 

An'  we're  goin'  to  wear  all  sorts  uv  jewels  an'  things, 

An'  biled  shirts,  an'  stiff  dickeys,  an'  them  sort  of  duds, 
An'  tall  hats  an'  thin  butes,  an'  gre't  big  di'mon'  rings, 

An'  live  in  a  five-story  house  like  blue  bluds ; 
An'  we're  goin'  to  hev  pie — and  three  times  a  day, — 

An'  pass  aroun'  all  kines  er  sass  to  each  other, 
An'  eat  between  meals  iest  w'enever  we  may  — 

To-morrer,  or  nex'  day.  or  sometime  oruther  ! 

An'  we  won't  work  ernuff  to  get  up  a  sweat 

In  the  good  time  thet's  comin',  we'll  jest  loll  and  lean, 
Stretch  out  in  the  shade  with  our  lazy  eyes  shet, 

An'  hev  our  big  tater  crop  dug  by  machine. 
An'  we  won't  do  no  things  thet  we  don't  want  to  do, 

An'  only  jest  do  the  things  thet  we  druther, 
An'  the  work  that  we'll  do  will  be  tarnally  few  — 

To-morrer,  or  nex'  day,  or  sometime  oruther  ! 


WAITING  FOR    THE  MAIL. 

WITH  anxious  features,  worn  and  pale, 
He  waits  the  coming  of  the  mail. 
Each  day  he  asks  with  hope  and  fear, 
"My  letter,  is  my  letter  here?" 
Each  day  the  answer  strikes  him  dumb, — 
"Not  yet,  old  man  ;  it  has  not  come." 
The  harmless  madman,  old  and  gray, 
No  one  would  jeer  or  drive  away. 
"Ah  me  ! "  he  sighs,  "long  years  have  passed, 
But  it  will  come,  'twill  come  at  last." 
And  so  he  waits,  in  silence  dumb, 
The  letter  that  will  never  come. 

Through  misty  visions  of  his  tears 
He  sees  the  long,  far-sundered  years ; 
The  past  comes  up  before  him  there  — 
When  he  was  strong  and  she  was  fair ; 
Once  more  he  feels,  in  very  truth, 
The  leaping  pulses  of  his  youth  ; 
A  strong,  strange  joy  he  feels  again, 
The  old  wild  fever  in  his  brain  : 
An  angry  word,  a  careless  tone, — 
Then  fifty  weary  years  alone. 
So  long  he  waits,  in  silence  dumb, 
The  letter  that  will  never  come. 

Alas  !  his  poor  old  wits  are  fled, 
He  cannot  know  that  she  is  dead ; 
And  so  he  asks  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  same  old  question  as  before. 


WAITING   FOR    THE   MAIL.  127 

He  wakes  with  morning  light  to  say, 
"My  letter,  it  will  come  to-day  ! " 
With  tottering  limbs  that  almost  fail, 
He  creeps  each  morning  to  the  mail, 
And  hears,  with  ever  new  regret, — 
"  Not  yet,  old  man ;  not  yet,  not  yet." 
And  then  he  waits,  in  silence  dumb, 
The  letter  that  will  never  come. 

Ah  me  !  poor  madman,  even  we 
Are  dupes  of  fickle  destiny ; 
In  careless  hope  we  waiting  sit 
For  missives  that  were  never  writ ; 
We  wait  to  see  the  harvest  grown 
From  seed  that  we  have  never  sown ; 
We  seek  the  harbor  mouth  to  hail 
The  vessels  that  will  never  sail ; 
We  wait  to  see  our  garners  filled 
With  fruit  of  fields  we  have  not  tilled ; 
WTe  wait,  in  gathering  stillness,  dumb, 
For  letters  that  will  never  come  ! 


PETER'S    QUESTIONS. 

HEN  Peter  was  a  sturdy  lad 

He  moved  from  Grassvale  with  his  dad ; 

And  left  behind  him  Joe  and  John, 
And  little  Jake  and  Jefferson  ; 
Four  chums  of  his  by  day  and  night 
With  whom  he  used  to  play  and  fight. 
Now  where  is  Joe,  and  where  is  John, 
And  where  is  Jake  and  Jefferson? 

Ten  years  passed  by  and  Pete  came  back 
With  these  four  questions  in  his  pack  : 
"Now  where  is  Joe,  and  where  is  John, 
And  where  is  Jake  and  Jefferson?  " 
"Joe  digs  his  livin'  with  his  pick, 
An'  John  keeps  store  down  to  the  '  Crickr ; 
Jake  is  away  to  school,  I  think, 
An1  Jefferson  has  took  to  drink." 

And  Pete  came  back  in  ten  years  more 
With  the  same  questions  as  before  : 
"  Now  where  is  Joe,  and  where  is  John, 
And  where  is  Jake  and  Jefferson?" 
"Joe  caught  cold  ditchin'  in  the  rain, 
An'  —  we  shan't  see  poor  Joe  again  ; 
An'  John  is  rich,  an'  Jake  is  wise, 
An'  Jeff  a  scamp  whom  all  despise." 

In  ten  years  Peter  comes  once  more, 
And  asking  questions  as  before  : 


PETER'S    QUESTIONS.  129 


"  Now  tell  me  where  is  old  friend  John, 
And  where  is  Jake  and  Jefferson?" 
"Why,  John  he  died  a  millionnaire  ; 
Jake's  gone  to  Congress,  I  declare. 
An'  Jeff — the  poor  old  worthless  scamp, 
Is  nothin'  but  a  common  tramp." 

And  once  more,  ten  years  later  on, 

He  asks  :   "  Where's  Jake  and  Jefferson?  " 

"  Hain't  heard  how  Governor  Jacob  died  ? 

He  was  the  state's  especial  pride, 

An'  to  his  solemn  funeral  grand 

The  great  men  came  from  all  the  land ; 

But  Jeff — it's  no  good  to  bewail  — 

Why  poor  old  Jeff  has  gone  to  jail." 

And  once  more,  ten  years  later  on, 

Does  Peter  ask  for  Jefferson. 

"Why  hain't  you  heard  the  story  yit? 

The  papers  they  was  full  of  it, 

It  filled  the  land  from  side  to  side, 

The  way  the  poor  old  fellow  died  — 

The  Jeff  who  played  with  you  when  young, 

The  worthless,  gray-haired  Jeff,  was  hung.' 

Ten  years  are  gone  with  days  that  were, 

Gone  questioner  and  answerer, 

And  with  his  questions  comes  no  more 

The  gray-haired  Peter  as  before. 

Do  well  or  ill  your  livelong  task, 

The  time  will  come  when  none  will  ask, 

"  Now  where  is  Joe,  and  where  is  John, 

And  where  is  Jake  and  Jefferson?" 


THE   LAND    OF   THE   LEFT. 

TTT  HE    big   thoughts    that  we  thought,  but  could  not  ex 
press  ; 

The  laws  we  proposed,  but  never  enacted  ; 
The  love  that  we  felt,  but  never  confessed  ; 

The  business  we  planned,  but  never  transacted ; 
The  warp  that  we  wove  and  neglected  the  weft,  — 
Are  piled  mountain  high  in  the  Land  of  the  Left ; 
They  are  piled  up  so  high 
That  they  graze  the  blue  sky, 
And  burden  the  earth  in  the  Land  of  the  Left. 


There  is  piled  bottled  thunder  that  never  has  burst, 

There  is  stored  livid  lightning  that  never  has  struck, 
And  there  stands  the  Last  who  had  hoped  to  be  First, 

The  lazy  and  luckless  believer  in  luck  j 
And  the  hopes  of  which  we  all  our  lives  were  bereft, 
.Stalk  proudly  and  grand  thro'  the  Land  of  the  Left ; 
And  our  gay  dreams  are  there 
Looking  wondrously  fair 
On  the  moonshiny  strand  of  the  Land  of  the  Left. 


And  the  office  we  run  for,  that  evermore  skips 

From    our    grasp,    like    a    shadow,    we'll    catch    in    that 

clime  — 
For  there  cabinet  portfolios  and  postmasterships 

Are  thick  as  mosquitoes  in  camp-meeting  time. 


THE   LAND    OF   THE   LEFT. 


For  Salt  River  cargoes  of  wonderful  heft 

Are  dumped  on  the  wharves  of  the  Land  of  the  Left ; 

There  the  office  we  prize 

Will  materialize  — 
We  will  find  it  at  last  in  the  Land  of  the  Left. 

Men  left  out  in  the  cold  will  be  pulled  in  to  warm 

Who  all  their  lives  long  have  chattered  and  shivered, 
And  their  cargoes  from  Spain  will  sail  in  from  the  storm, 

And  the  "letter  they  long  for"  be  duly  delivered. 
It  will  come  safe  and  sound,  with  its  seal  still  uncleft, 
From  the  postmaster's  hands  of  the  Land  of  the  Left  — - 
With  a  certified  check 
That  is  worth  a  good  speck 
On  the  National  Bank  of  the  Land  of  the  Left. 


THE   SILLICKMAN. 


i  jnn/jxci  o    vc 

life  began, 
An'  how  I 


Y"|"7  HERE'S  var'us  questions  fioatin'   roun'  'bout  how  my 
re  began, 

clum  fame's  dizzy  height  an'  now  am  sillick 
man ; 

An'  for  the  young  men  of  the  Ian',  who  after  me  shall  come, 
I  want  to  tell  the  story  of  the  way  that  I  have  clum. 

I  once  was  jest  as  poor  an'  mean  an'  miser'ble  as  you, 
Et  grub  ez  poor,  wore  duds  ez  mean  ez  all  you  fellers  do ; 
But  my  "  indomitable  will,"  ez  the  reporter  said, 
An'  my  "untiring  energy  "  hez  brung  me  out  ahead. 

I  saved  my  money,  et  corn  bread,  jest  ez  a  cow  eats  grass, 
An'  I  never  used  no  butter,  an'  I  never  sighed  for  sass ; 
"  Tough  vittles  for  a  workin'  man?  "  Well,  you  must  un'erstan' 
If  you  think  too  much  of  fodder,  w'y,  you  can't  be  sillickman. 

I  never  tried  to  be  no  dood,  wore  overalls  about, 

An'  w'en  the  outside   got  worn  thin  I  turned  'em  wrong  side 

out ; 

Seven  thirty-five  a  year  for  clo'es  —  this  was  my  reg'lar  plan — > 
An'  now  I'm  reaping  my  reward  —  for  I  am  sillickman. 

I  stored  my  min'  'ith  useful  facts,  I  read  the  County  Blow,  — 
I  borried  it  of  neighbor  Neal,  didn't  cost  a  cent,  you  know. 
The   Grass-vale  Banner  is  a  sheet  thet's   full  of  spunk  an' 

vim  — 
An'  neighbor  Nason  took  it,  an'  I  borried  it  of  him. 


THE    SILLICKMAN. 


133 


So  I  et  my  humble  vittles,  an'  I  'conomized  my  time, 
An'  I  stuffed  myself  with  knowledge,  an'  it  never  cost  a  dime. 
Now  you  see  I  wear  a  biled  shirt,  lug  a  pencil  in  my  han', 
An'  I  set  an'  rule  the  people,  for  I  now  am  sillickman. 

An'  I  think  it  is  my  duty  to  tell  what  I  have  done, 

An'  jest  the  way  I  done  it,  to  my  feller  countrymun. 

For  the  young  men  of  the  country  who  after  me  shall  come, 

I  now  have  told  the  story  of  the  way  that  I  have  clum. 


THE   PIONEER. 

""I  IM    CROKER  lived  far  in  the  woods,  a  solitary  place, 
/gi  I     Where  the  bushes  grew,  like  whiskers  on  his  unrazored 

face ; 
And  the  black  bear  was  his  brother  and  the  catamount  his 

chum, 
And  Jim  he  lived  and  waited  for  the  millions  yet  to  come. 


Jim  Croker  made  a  clearing,  and  he  sowed  it  down  with 

wheat, 
And  he  rilled  his  lawn  with  cabbage,  and  he  planted  it  with 

beet, 
And  it  blossomed  with  potatoes  and  with  peach  and  pear  and 

plum, 
And  Jim  he  lived  and  waited  for  the  millions  yet  to  come. 


Then  Jim  he  took  his  ancient  axe  and  cleared  a  forest  street, 
While  he  lived  on  bear  and  succotash  and  young   opossum 

meat, 
And  his  rhythmic  axe  strokes  sounded,  and  the  woods  no 

more  were  dumb, 
While  he  cleared  a  crooked  highway  for  the  millions  yet  to 

come. 


Then  they  came  like  aimless  stragglers,  they  came  from  far 

and  near, 
A  little  log-house  settlement  grew  round  the  pioneer ; 


THE  PIONEER.  135 


And  the  sound  of  saw  and  broadaxe  made  a  glad  industrial 

hum, 
Jim    said,  "  The    Coming   Millions,  they  have  just    begun  to 

come." 

And  a  little  crooked  railway  curved  round  mountain  hill  and 

lake, 

Crawling  toward  the  forest  village,  like  an  undulating  snake ; 
And  one  morn  the  locomotive  puffed  into  the  wilderness, 
And   Jim   said,  "  The    Coming  Millions,  they  are  coming  by 

express." 

And  the  village  grew  and  prospered,  but  Jim  Croker's  hair 

was  grayer ; 

When  they  got  a  city  charter  and  old  Jim  was  chosen  mayor, 
But  Jim  declined  the  honor,  and  moved  his  household  goods 
Far  away  into  the  forest,  to  the  old  primeval  woods. 

Far  and  far  into  the  forest  moved  the  grizzled  pioneer, 
There  he  reared  his  hut  and  murmured,  "  I  will  build  a  city 

here." 
And    he    hears    the    wood-fox    barking,    and    he     hears    the 

partridge  drum, 
And  the  old  man  sits  and  listens  for  the  millions  yet  to  come. 


WO  OD  CHUCKING. 

1HAVE  chased  fugacious  woodchucks  over  many  leagues 
of  land, 
But  at  last  they've  always  vanished  in  a  round  hole  in 

the  sand ; 
And  though  I've  been  woodchucking  many  times  —  upon  my 

soul  — 

I  have  never  bagged  my  woodchuck,  for  he  always  found  his 
hole. 


But  'tis  fun  to  go  woodchucking  when  a  fellow  is  a  boy, 

When  all  muscular  exertion  is  exhilarating  joy, 

Though  you  can't  get  near  the  woodchuck  so's  to  touch  him 

with  a  pole, 
And  the  evanescent  rascal  always  slides  into  his  hole. 


How  I  chased  the  panting  fugitive  and  raised  the  battle  cry, 
With  a  vision  right  before  me  of  a  chunk  of  woodchuck  pie ; 
With  a  vision  right  before  me  of  this  culinary  goal, 
Did  I  reach  to  grab   my  woodchuck  —  and  he   vanished  in 
his  hole. 


And  I  often  go  woodchucking  —  I  have  chased  him  here  and 

there  — 
That  lank,  fugacious  woodchuck,  like  a  long  streak  through 

the  air; 

For  the  projects  I  have  followed,  as  I  neared  the  eager  goal, 
Have  made  themselves  invisible,  and  vanished  in  their  hole. 


WO  OD  CHUCKING. 


137 


I   have  chased  my  hot  ambitions  through  the  meadow,  white 

with  flowers, 
Chased    them    through    the    clover    blossoms,    chased    them 

through  the  orchard  bowers, 
Chased  them  through  the  old  scrub  pastures  till,  with  weariness 

of  soul, 
I  at  last  have  seen  them  vanish,  like  a  woodchuck  in  his  hoi 3. 


But   there's   fun   in  chasing  woodchucks ;  and  I'll  chase  the 

vision  still, 
If  it  leads  me  through  the  dark  pine  woods,  and  up  the  stony 

hill; 

There's  a  glorious  expectation  that  still  lingers  in  my  soul, 
That  some  day  I'll  catch  that  woodchuck   ere  he  slides  into 

his  hole. 


DIVORCE. 

HEN  two  nags  won't    hitch    together,  but  balk  an' 

raise  a  rumpus,. 

An'  bite,  an'  throw  their  feet  aroun'  to  all  pints  uv 
the  compass, 
Them   hosses   I   don't  drive  no  more,  attached  to  the  same 

kerridge  — 
An'  I  have  jest  the  same  idee  about  divorce  an'  merridge. 

A  man  an'  wife  should  live  in  peace,  the  nateral  way  of  livin:, 

In  one  long  holiday  of  luv,  an'  honor  an'  thanksgivin' ; 

But   w'en   they  learn  to   hate   each   other,  an'  live   a  life  of 

snarlin', 
An'  "wretch  "  it  takes  the  place  of  "  dove,"  an'  "  brute  "  the 

place  of  "  darlin',  "  ; 

W'en  home  becomes  a  battlefield,  a  scene  of  fight  an'  scrim 
mage ; 

W'en  luv  pulls  down  her  household  gods,  an'  hate  sets  up  his 
image ; 

An  w'en  no  power  in  heaven  or  earth  can  take  the  pair  an' 
mate  'em  — 

It's  time  for  the  divorce  court,  then,  to  come  an'  separate  'em. 

"But  how  about  the  baby,  hey,  the  blameless  little  prattler?  " 
W'y,'  in  a  nest  of  rattlesnakes,  each  snake  becomes  a  rattler ; 
An'  if  you  want  the  child  to  mix  with  gentlemen  an'  ladies, 
It  won't   improve   his   chances   much   to  be   brought  up  in 
Hades. 


DIVORCE.    ' 


139 


Wen  his  father  an'  his  mother  fight,  it's  better  for  the  baby 
To  be  brought  up  by  charity,  than  be  brought  up  where  they 

be. 

"  But  they  should  never  wed  again  !  "  I'm  sorry  to  deny  it, 
But  if  a  feller  blunders  once,  w'y,  let  him  rectify  it. 

But    if  all  the  men  were  jest  like  me',  an'  all  their  wives  like 

Molly, 

An'  all  the  little  boys  like  Dick,  an'  all  the  girls  like   Polly,  — 
W'y,  all   divorce  courts  would   starve   out,   an'  each  divorce 

attorney 
Would  pack  his  grip  for  happier  climes,  an'  start  upon  his 

journey. 


AN  UNAMBITIOUS  MAN. 

IV  T  O  hot  ambition,  wild  and  wan, 
_  I  ^         Deforms  my  life  so  fair, 
I'd  like  to  be  a  selectman, 
And  have  folks  call  me  "squire  "  ; 
But  I'd  not  climb  the  topmost  height, 

Fame's  fickle  zephyr's  sport, 
But  yet  'twould  be  no  more  than  right, 

I  went  to  General  Court ; 
And  so  I'd  live  and  die  content 
In  modest,  shy  retirement. 


'Tis  true,  I  may  move  into  town 

Before  my  hair  is  grayer, 
And  then  I  hope  to  gain  renown 

And  be  elected  mayor ; 
But  I  would  not  be  grand  and  great 

To  make  the  people  stare, 
But  were  I  governor  of  the  state, 

I  think  I  would  not  care, 
Nor  let  Fame's  tempest-torn  control 
Mar  my  sweet  quietude  of  soul. 


I'd  live  the  most  content  of  men, 
Far  from  Fame's  maddening  roar, 

And  could  I  go  to  Congress  then, 
I  think  I'd  ask  no  more. 


AN   UNAMBITIOUS  MAN. 


141 


Of  course  the  President  must  be 

The  man  the  people  choose, 
And  should  the  people  turn  to  me, 

I  could  not  well  refuse. 
But  still  ambition  would  not  harm 
My  soul's  serene,  transcendent  calm. 

I  wish  no  splendor  when  I  die, 
But  all  things  neat  and  plain, 
A  catafalque  of  ebony, 

A  six  mile  funeral  train  ; 
And  I  would  rest  in  peace  content, 

If  my  loved  land  should  raise 
A  million-dollar  monument. 
To  speak  to  future  days. 
Let  others  toil  and  strain  for  fame, 
I  am  content  without  a  name. 


THE    UNPARDONABLE   SIN. 

ICAHN'T  endure  the  stoopid,  wude, 
Unculchawed  chap  —  the  vulgar  boah, 
Who  wears  in  the  mawhning  the  same  pair  of  twousers 

He  woah  the  day  befoah. 
It  makes  me  mad  and  vewy  cwoss, 

With  pain  and  gwief  I  almost  woah, 
To  see  the  next  mawhning  the  same  pair  of  twousers 
He  woah  the  day  befoah  ! 

And  when  I  mingle  with  the  thwong, 

Down  to  the  club  or  on  the  stweet, 
It  makes  me  fwantic  that  a  man 

Can  be  so  doocid  indiscweet, 
So  wough  and  weckless  and  so  wude  ; 

I  weally  want  to  spill  his  goah, 
When  he  weahs  in  the  mawhning  the  same  pair  of  twousers 

He  woah  the  day  befoah  ! 

Now  there  are  deeds  I  cahn  excuse, 

And  wongs  I  cahn  forgive, 
But  such  a  cwiminal  as  this 

Shouldn't  be  allowed  to  live  ! 
Why,  the  ideah  !  the  monstwous  wetch 

With  wage  and  fuwy  makes  me  woah, 
Who  wears  in  the  mawhning  the  same  pair  of  twousers 

He  woah  the  day  befoah  ! 


A    FALL   FROM   GRACE. 

E  allus  uster  to  think  Joe  Bean  a  fairish  sorter  man, 
An'  built  upon  a  purty  plumb  an'  perpendic'lar  plan ; 
We   made   him   sillickman  an'   squire,   sent   him    to 

General  Court ; 
Whatever  post  of  trust  he  had  he  allus  held  the  fort. 

We  sought  a  guvernjr  last  year,  we  scoured  the  state  through 

clean, 
We  couldn't  find  no   better   man,   an'  pounced  on  neighbor 

Bean. 

I  nomernated  him  myself,  —  yes,  yelled  out  loud  and  plain  : 
"  I  nomernate  old  Joseph  Bean  —  a  man  without  a  stain  !  " 

An'  then  the  big  convention  roared,  hurrahed,  an'  clapped  an' 

yelled ; 
It   took   the    cheerman    half    an   hour    afore    the    noise    was 

quelled. 
You'd  think,  the   way  they  yelled   and   roared  and  pounded 

there  like  sin, 
Joe  Bean  he  was  a  perfect  man  an'  angel  Gabriel's  twin. 

But  nex'   day  the  papers  hinted  that  his  mother  starved  to 

death, 
An'  Joe  wouldn't  give  her  food   enough  to  keep  her   mortal 

breath ; 

An'  then  another  paper  said  he  uster  beat  his  wife, 
An'   how   she   hid  out  in  the   barn  that   she  might  save  her 

life. 


146  A   FALL  FROM  GRACE. 

They  said  he  was  an  infidel,  an  anarchist  an'  snide, 

An'  said  it  looked  suspicious  that  ar  way  his  father  died ; 

An'  then  they  said  the  hoss  he  driv  should  pain  his  guilty 

soul  — 
It  looked  exactly  like  the  hoss  Ned  Butterfield  had  stole. 

They  said    Ned   Jones,  the  pedlar,  found  murdered  on  the 

green, 

The  last  time  he  was  seen  alive  was  seen  with  Joseph  Bean ; 
They  said  the  Baptis'  meet'n  house  burned  to  the  ground  last 

May 
Was  lighted  by  a  certain  man  —  but  they  didn't  like  to  say. 

But  Joe  was  'lected  guvernor,  an'  now  he  rules  the  state, 
But  he  wont  never  be  the  same  to  me,  I  calkerlate ; 
I  uster  think  him  honest,  an'  pure,  an'  jest,  an'  good, 
But  now  I'm  kinder  'shamed  to  live  in  the  same  neighbor 
hood. 


TUB    TRUNDLE-BED    VALLEY. 

I    KNOW  a  little  valley,  in  among  the  mountains  hid, 
A  trundle  bed  for  Natur's  babes  with  grass  green  coverlid, 
All  buttoned  down  'ith  tulips,  an'  all  trimmed  'ith  dande 
lion, 
A  crib  for  Natur's  child,  like  me,  to  toddle  to  an'  lie  on. 

I  love  to  watch  the  coverlid  sewed  with  the  lily's  stem, 

An'  the  trout  brook  is  its  bindin'  thet  curves  way  aroun'  its 

hem. 

Wen  the  burden  is  too  heavy  fer  my  heart  an'  han'  an'  head, 
I  jest  choke  down  my  tired  sobs  an'  seek  my  trundle  bed. 

Four    big    mountains    are    its    bed  posts ;    down  through  its 

awning  high, 

The  sun  shines  like  a  breas'-pin  in  the  buzzom  of  the  sky, 
An'  it  shines  so  warm  an'  frien'ly  where  my  coverlid  is  spread? 
Thet  I  don't  need  any  candle  w'en  I  seek  my  trundle-bed. 

Mother   Natur'  loves   her  child 'en,  so   the   good   oP  soul  has 

spread 

Tiger-lily  tangled  bed-quilts  over  my  big  trundle  bed. 
An'  to  give  her  fretful  youngster  no  excuse  for  being  cross, 
She  has  stuffed  a  lazy  pillow  with  the  softest  kind  of  moss. 

So,  w'en  I'm  torn  an'  tired  do  my  weary  footsteps  tread 

Up  the  pussy-wilier  valley  to  my  little  trundle  bed, 

Mother  Natur'  bends  her  face  down,  and  she  seems  to  love 

me  so 
Thet  I  rise  an'  toddle  bravely,  all  the  way  I  have  to  go. 


GOD-BE-GLORIFIED  JONES'    MORTGAGE. 

SE  bought  in  1665  a  farm  of  stumps  and  stones, 
His  name  was  God-Be-Glorified,  his    surname  it  was 
Jones, 

He  put  a  mortgage  on  the  farm,  and  then,  in  conscious  pride, 
*'  In  twenty  years  I'll  pay  it  up,"  said  God-Be-Glorified. 

The  mortgage  had  a  hungry  maw  that  swallowed  corn  and 

wheat ; 

He  toiled  with  patience  night  and  day  to  let  the  monster  eat ; 
He  slowly  worked  himself  to  death,  and  on  the  calm  hillside 
They  laid,  beyond  the  monster's  reach,  good  God-Be-Glorified. 

And  the  farm  with  its  incumbrances  of  mortgage,  stumps  and 

stones 

It  fell  to  young  Melchizedek  Paul  Adoniram  Jones. 
Melchizedek  was  a  likely  youth,  a  holy,  godly  man, 
And  he  vowed  to  raise  that  mortgage  like  a  noble  Puritan. 

And  he  went  forth  every  morning  to  the  rugged  mountain 
side, 

And  he  dug,  as  dug  before  him,  poor  old  God-Be-Glorified ; 

He  raised  pumpkins  and  potatoes  down  the  monster's  throat 
to  pour ; 

He  gulped  them  down  and  smacked  his  jaws,  and  calmly 
asked  for  more. 

He  worked  until  his  back  was  bent,  until  his  hair  was  gray  — 
On  the  hillside  through  a  snowdrift  they  dug  his  grave  one 
day  ! 


GOD-BE-GLORIFIED   JOKES'    MORTGAGE.  149 

His  first-born  son,  Eliphalet,  had  no  time  to  weep  and  brood, 
For    the    monster    by  his    doorstep    growled   forever  for   his 
food. 

He  fed  him  on  his  garden  truck,  he  stuffed  his  ribs  with  hay, 
And  he  fed  him  eggs  and  butter,  but  he  would  not  go  away ; 
And  Eliphalet  he  staggered  with  the  burden,  and  then  died 
And  slept  with  old  Melchizedek  and  God-Be-Glorified. 

Then  the  farm  it  fell  to  Thomas,  and  from  Thomas  fell  to 

John, 

Then  from  John  to  Eleazur,  but  the  mortgage  still  lived  on  ; 
Then  it  fell  to  Ralph  and  Peter,  Eli,  Absalom  and  Paul, 
Down  through  all  the  generations  —  but  the  mortgage  killed 

them  all  ! 

About  a  score  of  years  ago,  the  farm  came  down  to  Jim  — 
And  Jim  called  in  the  mortgagee  and  gave  the  farm  to  him. 
There's  no  human  heart  so  empty  that  it  has  no  ray  of  hope, 
So  Jim  gave  up  the  ancient  farm  and  went  to  making  soap. 

He  grew  a  fifty-millionnaire,  a  bloated,  pampered  nature. 
He     owned    ten    railroads,    twenty   mines,    the    whole    State 

legislature, 
And  thousands  did  his  gruff  commands,  and  lived  upon  his 

bounty ; 
And  he  came  home,   bought  back  the  farm,  and  the  entire 

county. 


THE    QUARTET'S  ANTHEM. 

0H,  yes,  I  heerd  the  anthem   sung  by   thet  big  church 
quartet, 
My  wife  she  raved  about  it,  but  I  kep'  my  own  mouth 

shet ; 

"  No  sweeter  song,"  she  sed,  "  is  sung  by  any  angel's  lip  "  ; 
An'  I  sot  still  an'  heerd  her  talk,  an'  never  raised  a  yip. 

They  sang,  "  We  shall  be  changed ;  "  that's  all ;  that's  all,  or 

purty  nigh ; 
"  We  shall  be  changed, —  we  shall  be  changed, —  we  shall  be 

changed."     Says  I, 
"  If  you  perpose  ail  day  an'  night  jest  them  same  words  to 

sing, 
W'y  I  should  think  a  change  would  be  a  very  proper  thing." 

The  tenor  sang  "We  shall  be  changed;"  an'  then  struck  in 

the  bass, 
Who  sang,  "We  shall,  we  shall  be  changed  "  from  the  bottom 

of  his  face ; 

The  alto  and  soprano  then  both  tried  their  vocal  range, 
An'  both  emphatically  expressed  the  certainty  of  "change." 

The  absence  of  idees  wuz  drowned  in  plenteousness  of  voice. 
What  strict  econermy  of  words,  an'  'stravagance  of  noise  ! 
For   they  were  stingy  of  their  words  and  generous  of  their 

strains, 
An'  they  were  spendthrifts  of  their  lungs  an'  misers  of  their 

brains. 


THE    QUARTET'S   ANTHEM. 


An'  they  call  this  mighty  music ;  'taint  for  me  to  say  it's  not ; 
But    I    think    music's    better    w'en    its    slightly    mixed    with 

thought ; 

I  think  yer  lungs  give  forth  to  men  a  more  inspirin'  strain 
If  they  first    have  made  connection  with  the  engine  of   yer 

brain. 

W'en  Maria  rocked  our  boy  to  sleep  an'  sung  her  baby  song 
That  quiet  Sabbath  evenin',  with  the  shadders  growin'  long, 
"The  music  of  thet  baby  song,"  sez  I  to  her,  sez  I, 
"  It  beats   yer  quartet  anthem  out,  an'  knocks  the  thing  sky 


HE    WANTED    TO   KNOW. 

E  wanted  to  know  how  God  made  the  worl' 

Out  er  nothin'  at  all, 

W'y  it  wasn't  made  square,  like  a  block  or  a  brick, 
Stid  er  roun',  like  a  ball, 
How  it  managed  to  stay  held  up  in  the  air, 

An'  w'y  it  don't  fall ; 
All  sich  kin'  er  things,  above  an'  below, 
He  wanted  to  know. 

He  wanted  to  know  who  Cain  had  for  a  wife, 

An'  if  the  two  fit ; 
Who  hit  Billy  Patterson  over  the  head, 

If  he  ever  got  hit ; 
An'  where  Moses  wuz  w'en  the  candle  went  out, 

An'  if  others  were  lit ; 
If  he  couldn'  fin'  these  out,  w'y  his  cake  wuz  all  dough, 

An'  he  wanted  to  know. 

An'  he  wanted  to  know  'bout  original  sin ; 

An'  about  Adam's  fall ; 
If  the  snake  hopped  aroun'  on  the  end  of  his  tail 

Before  doomed  to  crawl, 
An'  w'at  would  hev  happened  if  Adam  hedn'  et 

The  ol'  apple  at  all ; 
These  ere  kind  er  things  seemed  ter  fill  him  'ith  woe, 

An'  he  wanted  to  know. 

An'  he  wanted  to  know  w'y  some  folks  wuz  good, 

An'  some  folks  wuz  mean, 
W'y  some  folks  wuz  middlin'  an'  some  folks  wuz  fat, 

An'  some  folks  wuz  lean, 


HE    WANTED    TO   KNOW.  153 

An'  some  folks  were  very  learned  an'  wise, 

An'  some  folks  dern  green  ; 
All  these  kin'  er  things  they  troubled  him  so 

That  he  wanted  to  know. 

An'  so  he  fired  conundrums  aroun', 

For  he  wanted  to  know ; 
An'  his  nice  crop  er  taters  'ud  rot  in  the  groun', 

An'  his  stuff  wouldn't  grow, 
For  it  took  so  much  time  to  ask  questions  like  these, 

He'd  no  time  to  hoe  ; 
He  wanted  to  know  if  these  things  were  so, 

Course  he  wanted  to  know. 

An'  his  cattle  they  died,  an   his  horses  grew  sick, 

'Cause  they  didn't  hev  no  hay ; 
An'  his  creditors  pressed  him  to  pay  up  his  bills, 

But  he'd  no  time  to  pay, 
For  he  had  to  go  roun'  askin'  questions,  you  know, 

By  night  an'  by  day ; 
He'd  no  time  to  work,  for  they  troubled  him  so, 

An'  he  wanted  to  know. 

An'  now  in  the  poorhouse  he  travels  aroun' 

In  just  the  same  way, 
An'  asks  the  same  questions  right  over  ag'in, 

By  night  and  by  day ; 
But  he  haint  foun'  no  feller  can  answer  em'  yit, 

An'  he's  oF  an'  he's  gray, 
But  these  same  oF  conundrums  they  trouble  him  so, 

That  he  still  wants  to  know. 


A    GREAT   CONTROVERSIALIST. 

T"^O  fact  Uncle  Jonas  would  take  upon  trust, 
I        He  would  cavil  and  question  and  doubt  it, 

(Q  And  would  say  to  each  logical  dogmatist's  thrust, 

"  Waal,  now,  let  us  arger  about  it." 
Every  "  p'int  "  of  the  question  he'd  marshal  with  care, 

And  march  all  around  and  about  it, 
And  say,  while  he  stroked  his  last  vestige  of  hair, 

"Waal,  now,  let  us  arger  about  it." 


On  faith,  on  predestination  and  grace, 

On  election,  and  foreordination 
He'd  "  arger"  all  day  without  ever  a  trace 

Of  exhaustion  or  disinclination; 
When  the  the  pastor  advised  him  to  think  of  his  sins, 

"You're  a  sinner,"  he  said,  "  none  can  doubt  it," 
It  brought  Uncle  Jonas  at  once  to  his  pins, 

"Waal,  now,  let  us  arger  about  it." 


And  when  he  was  married  and  led  his  young  bride 

Right  up  to  the  church  and  the  altar, 
His  mind  didn't  seem  to  be  just  satisfied, 

Even  then  he  was  ready  to  falter. 
"  Do  you  take  this  young  woman  to  be  your  own  wife?  " 

Uncle  Jonas  was  ready  to  doubt  it ; 
"  Do  you  take  her  for  better  or  worse,  and  for  life?  " 

Said  Jonas,  "Let's  arger  about  it." 


A    GREAT    CONTROVERSIALIST.  155 


Last  week  Uncle  Jonas  was  fatally  ill 
In  the  very  last  stage  of  consumption, 

His  work  was  laid  down  at  the  farm  and  the  mill- 
Without  ever  a  hope  of  resumption. 

"  You  must  die,"  said  the  doctor  ;  "  the  presence  of  death 
Hovers  o'er  you,  and  no  one  can  doubt  it," 

But  Jonas  replied  with  his  very  last  breath. 

"  Waal  —  now  —  let  —  us  —  arger  —  about  —  k." 

And  I  fancy  his  soul  up  at  Paradise  gate, 

And  "argering"  there  at  the  portal, 
While  the  hymns  of  the  angels,  in  rapture  elate, 

Float  over  the  city  immortal. 
Should  the  porter  refuse  him  admittance  therein. 

Uncle  Jonas  would  not  go  without  it, 
But  his  voice  would  rise  up  o'er  the  music's  wild  din, 

"Naow,  Peter,  let's  arger  about  it." 


THE   SPARE   ROOM. 

0UR  front  room,  it  was  furnished  fair, 
But  closed  to  all  the  life  of  home ; 
A  reservoir  of  mouldy  air, 
A  corpseless  catacomb. 
A  stern  domestic  quarantine 

Scared  childish  footsteps  from  its  door, 
As  if  a  powder  magazine 

Were  kept  beneath  the  floor. » 


But  when  our  folks  had  company, 

The  unused  doors  were  opened  wide, 
And  on  the  lavish  luxury 

We  feasted   open-eyed. 
But  we  were  strangers  there,  and  hence 

A  nervous  terror  flushed  each  cheek ; 
Before  the  grand  magnificence 

We  dared  not  move  or  speak. 


And  so  we  sat  in  vague  alarms, 

And  sighed  for  some  supporting  pegs. 
For  our  unnecessary  arms 

And  our  superfluous  legs  ; 
We  smiled  our  india-rubber  smile,  — 

A  long,  perfunctory,  muscular  grin, 
Which  advertised  to  all  outside 

How  bad  we  felt  within. 


THE   SPARE  ROOM.  157 

Our  hearts  were  in  the  barn  at  play, 

Or  played  at  tag  about  the  shed  ; 
Our  bodies,  statuettes  of  clay, 

Sat  in  the  parlor  —  dead. 
In  moveless  suffering  we  sat  on 

And  wept  for  back-yard  haunts  to  roam, 
As,  by  the  brooks  of  Babylon, 

The  Hebrews  wept  for  home. 

In  intellectual  kitchens  dole 

Strong  men  their  choicest  life  away, 
And  keep  the  front  rooms  of  the  soul 

Unopened  to  the  day. 
They  keep  the  pantry  well-equipped, 

The  cellar  they  will  never  scant,  — 
The  parlor  is  a  darkened  crypt 

Without  an  occupant. 

Hence,  blest  is  he  who  quits  the  quest 

For  wealth,  or  fame's  receding  goal, 
And  every  day  returns  for  rest 

To  the  front  room  of  the  soul. 
Who  lets  the  tempest  rave  and  roll 

Around  him  ;  in  his  glad  release, 
Within  the  front  room  of  the  soul 

He  findeth  perfect  peace. 


ENOCH  AND    CYRUS    AND  JERRY   AND    BEN. 

BNOCH  and  Cyrus  and  Jerry  and  Ben 
Were  babies  together,  four  fat  little  men, 
Four  bald-headed   babies   who  bumped  themselves 

blue, 

And  sprawled,  grabbed  and  tumbled,  as  all  babies  do. 
Full  of  laughter  and  tears,  full  of  sorrow  and  glee, 
And  big,  bouncing  bunglers,  as  all  babies  be. 
All  in  the  same  valley  lived  these  little  men  — 
Enoch  and  Cyrus  and  Jerry  and  Ben. 


Enoch  and  Cyrus  and  Jerry  and  Ben 
Were  fast  little  chums  —  till  they  grew  to  be  men. 
Eight  bare  little  feet  on  the  same  errands  flew 
Thro'  meadows  besprinkled  with  daisies  and  dew  ; 
They  were  aimless  as  butterflies,  thoughtless  and  free 
As  the  summer-mad  bobolink,  drunken  with  glee. 
A  wonderful  time  were  those  careless  days  then 
For  Enoch  and  Cyrus  and  Jerry  and  Ben. 


Enoch  and  Cyrus  and  Jerry  and  Ben 

Grew  from  babies  to  boys,  and  from  boys  into  men. 

Too  restless  to  stay  in  the  circumscribed  bound 

Of  the  green  hills  that  circled  their  valley  around, 

To  the  North  and  the  South  and  the  East  and  the  West, 

Each  departed  alone  on  a  separate  quest. 

Ah,  they'll  ne'er  be  the  same  to  each  other  again  — 

Enoch  and  Cyrus  and  Jerry  and  Ben. 


ENOCH  AND    CYRUS  AND   JERRY  AND   BEN.       159 

Enoch  and  Cyrus  and  Jerry  and  Ben, 

Companions  in  youth,  were  strangers  as  men ; 

Enoch  grew  rich  and  haughty  and  proud, 

While  Cyrus  worked  on  with  the  toil-driven  crowd ; 

In  the  councils  of  state  Jerry  held  a  proud  place, 

But  Ben,  he  sounded  the  depths  of  disgrace. 

Ah,  diverse  were  the  lives  of  those  boys  from  the  glen  — 

Enoch  and  Cyms  and  Jerry  and  Ben. 

Enoch  and  Cyrus  and  Jerry  and  Ben,  — 

Who  can  read  the  strong  fates  that  encompassed  these  men? 

The  fate  that  raised  one  to  the  summit  of  fame, 

The  fate  that  dragged  one  to  the  darkness  of  shame  ! 

Ah,  silence  is  best ;  neither  glory  nor  blame 

Will  I  grant  to  the  honored  or  dishonored  name. 

We  are  all  like  those  boys  who  grew  to  be  men  — 

Like  Enoch,  or  Cyrus,  or  Jerry,  or  Ben. 


THE    GOVERNOR'S  FATHER. 

ORTER  be  proud  er  Ned,"  yer  say; 
"  One  the  bigges'  men  er  the  day ; 
He  is  a  fav'rite  son  er  fate 
The  bigges'  gun  in  all  the  State." 
Wall,  arter  all  is  said  an'  done 
This  'ere  smart  man  is  my  own  son  ! 
An'  I  —  I  allus  dug  the  dirt, 
An'  allus  wore  an  unbiled  shirt ; 
Allus  stubbed  round  in  cowhide  boots, 
An'  allus  dressed  in  drillin'  suits  ; 
Orrer  be  proud  er  him?—  Dear  me  ! 
I  orter  —  wall  —  I  guess  I  be  ! 

Ned  wuz  a  roly-poly  kid, 

An'  jest  the  cutest  things  he  did  ! 

He  jest  slopped  over  with  delight 

An'  spilt  roun'  sunshine  day  air  night ! 

Heaven's  bung  er  happiness  turned  loose, 

An'  Ned  he  jest  drunk  in  the  joose  ; 

He  gurgled  in  his  baby  glee. 

An'  gosh  !  he  thought  the  worF  er  me. 

At  night  I  tucked  him  in  his  bed 

An'  said,  "I'm  proud  er  little  Ned." 

An'  Ned  grew  up,  a  likely  lad, 

An'  hoed  pertaters  with  his  dad ; 

He  spread  the  hay,  an'  milked  the  cow, 

An'  hoed  the  corn  —  I  showed  him  how  ! 


THE    GOVERNOR'S  FATHER. 


161 


An'  out  here  in  the  woods  with  me, 

He  bragged  er  what  he  hoped  to  be ; 

He  said  :  "P'rhaps,  sometime,  I'll  be  great, 

An'  be  the  guv'nor  of  the  State." 

An'  I  sez  :   "  Go  ahead,  my  lad, 

An'  be  an  honor  to  yer  dad." 


But  now  he's  grown  to  what  you  see, 
But  —  wall  —  he's  grown  away  from  me. 
Orter  be  proud  er  him?  —  Ah  me  ! 
I  orter — wall  —  I  guess  I  be. 

Ned's  brain  is  full  er  mighty  things, 
Sich  thoughts  as  fill  the  skulls  er  kings, 


1 62  THE    GOVERNOR'S  FATHER. 

Thoughts  fer  big  dictionary  words, 
While  I  still  think  of  creams  an'  curds, 
Of  hoein'  taters,  plantin'  corn, 
Jest  ez  I  did  when  Ned  wuz  born. 
No  longer  does  my  rosy  lad 
Think  jest  the  same  thoughts  as  his  dad ; 
An'  I  mus'  be,  I've  often  said, 
A  purty  common  man  to  Ned. 
How  distant  in  the  past  they  be, 
Them  days  when  Ned  looked  up  to  me  ! 
Orter  be  proud  er  him  ?  Dear  me  ! 
I  orter — wall —  I  guess  I  be. 

The  worl'  a  mighty  man  hez  won, 
But  I  —  wall  —  I  have  lost  my  son  ; 
An'  Fame  may  laff  an'  dance  with  joy  — 
I  druther  cry —  I've  lost  my  boy  ! 
Orter  be  proud  er  him  ?  —  Ah  me  ! 
I  orter —  wall  —  I  guess  I  be. 


INGIN  SUMMER. 
ATUR',  the  good  old  schoolmarm  who  pities  our  dis- 


She  gives  her  children  every  year  a  little  glad  recess  ; 
An'  oP  gray-headed  boys  an'  girls,  they  feel  their  hearts  thaw 

out, 
An'  life  flows  on  as  music'ly  as  water  from  a  spout. 

An'  now  the  Ingin  summer  time,  'ith  all  its  rest,  is  here, 
A  piece  of  sweet  meat  stuck  between  the  slices  of  the  year  ; 
A  sorter  reign  er  jubilee  'twixt  snow  an'  thunder  showers  ; 
A  chunk  er  sweetness  sandwiched  in  between  the  frost  and 
flowers. 

The  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air  goes  off  on  his  vacation, 
The  devil  jest  holds  up  a  spell  an'  stops  his  aggervation  ; 
An'  Natur'  an'  the  heart  er  man,  unriled  by  heat  or  flood, 
They  jest  lay  back  an'  hoi'  their  breath,  an'  feel  that  God  is 
good. 

Now  w'en  we  breathe  we  just  take  in  great  gulps  er  happiness, 
We  drink  the  air,  like  apple  juice,  from  Natur's  cider-press  ; 
It  jest  comes  tricklin'  down  thro'  space  from  heaven's  great 

vats  above, 
An'  fills  our  lungs  'ith  oxygin,  an'  slops  our  souls  'ith  love  ! 

I  love  my  neighbor  like  myself,  this  Ingin  summer  day, 
I  feel  it's  glorious  to  live,  for  life  is  all  ().  K. 
Xatur',  the  good  ol'  schoolmarm  who  pities  our  distress, 
She  gives  her  children  every  year  this  little  glad  recess. 


CHORES. 

ED  DORCUM  allus  used  to  say 
/g)  I     When  we  asked  him  to  come  and  play 

With  us  boys  down  to  Harry  More's, 
<c  I've  gotter  to  stay  and  do  the  chores." 
No  recreation  would  he  take 
For  all  his  weight  in  jelly  cake  — 
No  glad  fun  in  or  out  of  doors ; 
He  had  to  stay  and  do  the  chores. 

We  drove  a  woodchuck  in  the  wall 

But  Jed  he  paid  no  heed  at  all ; 

A  circus  passed  through  Lower  Town 

But  busy  Jed  he  couldn't  go  down. 

The  elephant  went  tramping  by 

And  shook  the  earth  and  touched  the  sky. 

The  tiger  howls,  the  lion  roars, — 

Jed  stays  at  home  and  does  the  chores. 

Much  like  Jed  Dorcum  are  we  all 
WTho  long  for  great  things  and  do  small ; 
We  moil  among  the  trivial  sods 
Within  the  gardens  of  the  gods, 
While  the  dark  clusters  hang  above 
Rich  with  the  juice  of  life  and  love. 
We  cannot  reach  and  pluck  them  down, 
These  fair  pomegranates  of  renown, 
Whose  juice  life's  early  hope  restores, 
For  we  must  work  and  do  the  chores. 


CHORES. 

Above  us  sternly  loom  forever 
The  mighty  Mountains  of  Endeavor, 
And  whoso  on  their  summit  stands 
Looks  on  the  sun-kissed  table  lands. 
We  grasp  our  mountain  staff  to  climb 
Their  sky  enshrouded  peaks  sublime, 
Up  where  the  crystal  torrent  pours  — 
And  then  we  pause  to  do  our  chores. 

We  start  with  courage  in  the  heart 
To  try  the  endlessness  of  art, 
In  hope  that  we  may  speak  some  day 
The  word  the  Spirit  bids  us  say. 
But  e'er  we  speak  the  word  aright 
The  shadows  come  and  it  is  night. 
Put  out  the  light  and  close  the  doors, 
For  good  or  ill  we've  done  our  chores. 


165 


TED   AND    TOM. 

TED  and  Tom  were  brothers,  born  in  the  same  old  farm 
house, 
Played  in  the  same  green  meadows,  fished  in  the  same 

wild  stream ; 
Both  chased  the  same  red  woodchuck,  both  shirked  in  the 

same  cornfield, 

Made  love  to  the  same  schoolgirl,  and  dreamed  the  same 
sweet  dream. 


Ted  wandered  off  at  twenty,  passed  the  world's  misty  moun 
tains, 

And  traced  historic  rivers  through  legendary  lands  ; 
He  sailed  tempestuous  oceans,  by  trailing  tropic  islands, 

Basked  in  irriguous  valleys  and  toiled  through  desert  sands. 

Tom  lived  at  home  till  eighty,  mowed  the  ancestral  hayfields, 
And    reaped    his    annual   harvests,   and  watched  his  hens 
and  bees ; 

He  toiled  on  in  his  birthplace  until  the  mourners  bore  him 
To  th'  hereditary  graveyard  beneath  the  maple  trees. 

But  Ted,   he  lived   in  dreamland,  and  everywhere   he   wan 
dered 

He  saw  the  old  green  meadows,  the  waving  fields  of  corn, 
The  big  rock  by  the  pine  woods,  the  huckleberry  pasture, 
The  red  house   in  the    valley, —  the    house  where  he  was 
born. 


TED   AND    TOM. 


167 


Tom  also  lived  in  dreamland,  and  trod  in  misty  trances 

Through  visionary  mountains,  and  through  legendary  lands  ; 
He  sailed  through  odorous  oceans  and  passed  palm-fronded 

islands, 

And   heard    the  sounding  surf-wash  that  broke  on  savage 
strands. 

Thus    Ted   and  Tom  were  brothers,  and    lived  as  life  com 
panions, 

Though  evermore  divided  by  sundering  lands  and  seas, 
Both   roamed   the   earth   together,    both   tilled    the    ancestral 

acres, 
Until  both  slept  together  beneath  the  maple  trees. 


THE   INKSTAND   BATTLE. 

E  are  making  smokeless  powder 

And  big  bombs  to  throw  a  mile, 
That  will  blow  the  foe  to  chowder 
In  the  true  dynamic  style. 
Talk  not  of  the  bloody  red  man, 
And  the  foe  his  arrow  drops  — 
Every  ball,  it  means  a  dead  man, 
Every  bullet  means  a  corpse  ! 


We've  a  whirling  gun ;  you  spin  it 

And  the  myriad  bullets  fly, 
And  a  hundred  men  a  minute 

Roll  their  stony  eyes  and  die. 
"Make  your  swath  of  dead  men  deeper," 

Thus  the  modern  Spirit  saith, 
"  Start  me  up  this  rattling  reaper 

On  the  harvest  fields  of  death." 


Let  us  stop  this  wild  death's  revel  ! 

Martin  Luther,  so  'tis  said. 
Threw  his  inkstand  at  the  devil 

And  the  black  fiend  turned  and  fled. 
Smite  your  world-wrong ;   don't  combat  it 

With  a  fusillade  of  lead  ; 
Simply  throw  your  inkstand  at  it ; 

Come  to-morrow  :   it  is  dead. 


THE   INKSTAND   BATTLE.  169 

When  the  world  upon  the  brink  stands 

Of  some  crisis  steep  and  dread, 
Like  brave  soldiers  seize  your  inkstands, 

Hurl  them  at  the  devil's  head ; 
Pour  your  ink-pots  in  a  torrent 

Till  the  strangling  demon  sink, 
Till  the  struggling  fiend  abhorrent 

Drown  in  oceans  of  black  ink. 

For  the  man  who's  born  a  fighter, 

For  the  brain  that's  learned  to  think, 
There  is  dynamite  and  nitre 

In  a  bottle  of  black  ink. 
Though  it  makes  no  weeping  nations. 

And  it  leaves  no  gaping  scars, 
Placed  'neath  Frror's  strong  foundations, 

'Twill  explode  them  to  the  stars. 


SHE    TALKED. 

SHE  talked  of  Cosmos  and  of  Cause, 
And  wove  green  elephants  in  gauze, 

And  while  she  frescoed  earthen  jugs, 
Her  tongue  would  never  pause  : 
On  sages  wise  and  esoteric, 
And  bards  from  Wendell  Holmes  to  Herrick 
Thro'  time's  proud  Pantheon  she  walked, 
And  talked  and  talked  and  talked  and  talked  ! 


And  while  she  talked  she  would  crochet, 

And  make  all  kinds  of  macrame, 
Or  paint  green  bobolinks  upon 

Her  mother's  earthen  tray ; 

She'd  decorate  a  smelling  bottle 
While  she  conversed  on  Aristotle  ; 

While  fame's  proud  favorites  round  her  flocked, 

She  talked  and  talked  and  talked  and  talked  ! 


She  talked  and  made  embroidered  rugs, 
She  talked  and  painted  'lasses  jugs, 

And  worked  five  sea-green  turtle  doves 
On  papa's  shaving  mugs ; 
With  Emerson  or  Epictetus, 
Plato  or  Kant,  she  used  to  greet  us  : 
She  talked  until  we  all  were  shocked, 
And  talked  and  talked  and  talked  and  talked  ! 


SHE    TALKED.  171 


She  had  a  lover,  and  he  told 
The  story  that  is  never  old, 

While  she  her  father's  bootjack  workt  d 
A  lovely  green  and  gold. 

She  switched  off  on  Theocritus, 

And  talked  about  Democritus  ; 
And  his  most  ardent  passion  balked, 
And  talked  and  talked  and  talked  and  talked  ! 

He  begged  her  to  become  his  own ; 

She  talked  of  ether  and  ozone, 

And  painted  yellow  poodles  on 

Her  brother's  razor  hone  ; 

Then  talked  of  Noah  and  Neb'chadnezzar, 
And  Timon  and  Tiglath-pileser-— 

While  he  at  her  heart  portals  knocked, 

She  talked  and  talked  and  talked  and  talked  ! 

He  bent  in  love's  tempestuous  gale, 

She  talked  of  strata  and  of  shale, 

And  worked  magenta  poppies  on 

Her  mother's  water  pail ; 

And  while  he  talked  of  passion's  power, 
She  amplified  on  Schopenhauer  — 

A  pistol  flashed  :  he's  dead  !     Unshocked, 

She  talked  and  talked  and  talked  and  talked  ! 


THE   RAIL   AROUND    THE  JAIL. 

DON'T  you  hold  your  head  so  high, 
Or  you'll  bust  holes  in  the  sky ; 
When  you  walk,  the  big  earth  jars, 
An'  yer  whiskers  sweep  the  stars, 
An'  yer  fill  up  the  hull  street, 
Whirl  the  worl'  roun'  with  yer  feet, 
An'  refuse  to  speak  to  me  — 
Guess  you  don't  know  who  I  be. 


So  you  won't  say  "  howdy  do," 
But  I'm  jest  ez  good  ez  you ; 
May  hev  less  orig'nal  sin, 
If  I  hain't  no  diamond  pin ; 
Ain't  no  line  divides  a  man 
From  his  fellers,  understan' ; 
Ain't  no  line  except  the  rail 
Of  the  fence  aroun'  the  jail. 


Ef  I  keep  outside  the  rail 
Of  this  fence  aroun'  the  jail, 
I'm  a  great  gun,  fit  ter  bang 
In  the  big  Four  Hundred  gang. 
An'  the  president,  understan', 
Is  but  jest  my  hired  man ; 
An'  I  watch  and  boss  w'ile  he 
Does  the  nation's  chores  for  me. 


THE  RAIL  AROUND   THE  JATL.  173 


What  we're  goin'  to  do  bimeby, 
'Fore  the  universe  goes  dry, 
Is  to  make  no  diff'runce  —  see? 
'Twixt  sich  chaps  ez  you  an'  me  ;, 
One  be  jest  ez  good  ez  t'other, 
Both  in  love  'ith  one  another  : 
Wile  we  keep  outside  the  rail 
Of  the  fence  aroun'  the  jail. 

You  hain't  got  no  bluer  blood, 
An'  yer  made  er  the  same  mud  ; 
An'  yer  vittles,  fresh  or  stale, 
Comes  from  the  same  dinner-pail. 
That's  a  good  'nough  creed  for  me 
Thet  was  taught  in  ol'  Judee  ; 
Men  are  bruthers  ;  good  enough  ; 
Men  are  bruthers;  thet's  the  stuff! 

An'  the  time  is  goin'  to  be 
Wen  we'll  come  to  thet  idee, 
Thet  all  men  outside  the  rail 
Of  the  fence  aroun'  the  jail, 
Will  all  mix  like  gin'ral  dough, 
An'  love's  yeast  will  make  it  grow;. 
An'  by  thet  time  Natur's  cake 
Will  be  riz  enousrh  to  bake. 


THE   LAND    OF  GIT-THARE. 

THERE   are  purple  grapes  in  the  Land  of  Git-Thare 
Whose  clusters  climb  higher  and  higher, 
In  each  rounded  breast  is  the  vintage  of  rest 
That  tones  the  lax  nerves  with  an  infinite  zest, 

And  thrills  the  dull  brain  with  new  fire. 
Through  musical  rushes  the  streams  flow  along, 
And  the  valleys  resound  with  the  Daughters  of  Song, 

And  flaunt  with  their  floating  attire  ; 
There  is  shade,  and  cool  fountains,  and  music  to  spare, 
In  the  mountain-hemmed  vales  of  the  Land  of  Git-Thare. 


And  the  branches  bend  down  with  pomegranates  of  peace, 

That  ooze  with  the  juice  of  delight, 
Through  the  odorous  Pass  of  the  Spangled  Grass, 
To  the  Lily- Pad  Lake,  that  is  clearer  than  glass, 

Dream  zephyrs  float  down  from  the  height. 
They  are  heavy  with  perfumes  and  odorous  smells, 
That  rise  from  the  grots  of  the  Daffodil  Dells 

Where  the  noonday  is  mixed  with  the  night. 
There  is  perfume  and  song  and  sweet  music  to  spare 
In  the  verdurous  vales  of  the  Land  of  Git-Thare. 


But  you  climb  the  tall  mountains  of  Precipice  Land 

Ere  you  come  to  the  Land  of  Git-Thare  : 
And  you  cross  the  White  Land  of  Poisonous  Sand 
Till  you  reach  the  black  shore  of  the  Shipwreck  Strand, 
By  the  blood-red  Sea  of  Despair. 


THE   LAND    OF  GIT-THARE. 


175 


And  you  sail  this  sea  like  a  lonesome  morass, 
Till  you  come  to  the  pass  of  the  Spangled  Grass, 

And  a  strong-armed  angel  is  there. 
And  a  glittering  sword  in  his  hand  gleams  bare, 
To  drive  back  all  who  seek  for  the  Land  of  Git-Thare. 


THE    CALF   ON  THE   LAWN. 

I'M  goin'  to  hitch  this  'ere  young  caff  out  here  in  my  front 
lawn, 
He'll  stay  right  here  an'  chaw  the  grass  'till  the  hull  thing 

is  chawn, 

He'll  chaw  thet  corner  off  to-day,  until  he's  et  it  bare  ; 
Ter-morrer  I  will  move  his  stake,  an'  he'll  chaw  over  there. 


Looks  bad,  yer  say,  to  see  a  caff  out  in  a  man's  front  yard, 
An'  blattin',  like  a  barn-yard,  on  this  stylish  boolevarcl : 
But  thet  air  caff  shall  eat  thet  grass  until  I  get  him  fat, 
An'  if  he  feels  like  blattin',  w'y,  I  reckon  he  will  blat. 


Wen  I  fust  took  my  farm  out  here  this  was  a  country  road, 

Across  the  way  was  parstchure  Ian',  where  huckleberries 
growed  ; 

My  caff  wuz  then  hitched  in  my  yard  fer  the  hull  town's  in 
spection, 

An'  no  darn,  enterprisin'  dood  cum  roun'  to  make  objection. 


Wen   this  road  growed  a  village  street,  my  caff  was  in  the 

yard, 

An'  now  the  street  it  swells  'ith  style  —  a  city  boolevard  ! 
But   I  will  hitch  this  ere  young  caff  out  here  in  my  front 

lawn. 
He'll  stay  right  here  an'  chaw  the  grass  till  the  hull  thing  is 

chawn. 


THE    CALF  ON  THE   LAWN.  179 


You  say  the  way  I  carry  on  makes  the  hull  city  laff; 

Wall,  let  'em  laff,  —  this  ere's  my  lawn,  an'  this  ere  is  my  caff, 

An'  things  hez  reached  the  purtiest  pass  the  worl'  hez  ever 

sawn, 
Ef  an  ol'  duff  can't  let  his  caff  chaw  grass  on  his  own  lawn. 

Wall,  let  'em  laff;  this  'ere  young  caff  shall  stay  here  anyhow, 

An'  if  I  hear  'em  laff  too  hard,  I'll  trot  out  the  ol'  cow; 

I'll  hitch  'em  both  to  the  same  stake,  right  here  in  my   front 

lawn, 
An'  let  'em  stay  an'  chaw  the  grass  till  the  hull  thing  is  chawn  ! 


SHORTEM'S    QUESTION. 


T  (^  OUNG  SHORTEM  he  has  much  to  learn, 

y          And  though  he's  round  and  fat, 
He  stubs  to  everything  he  sees 

And  points  and  says,  "Wot's  zat?  " 
The  trees,  the  grass,  the  sticks,  the  stones, 

The  horse,  the  dog,  the  cat,  — 
They  all  are  wonders  of  the  world, 

And  so  he  asks  "Wot's  zat?" 


Young  Shortem  sits  upon  my  knee 

And  in  my  knowledge  basks ; 
In  my  omniscient  wisdom  I 

Can  answer  all  he  asks. 
He  thinks  the  fount  of  learning  springs 

From  just  beneath  my  hat ; 
He  comes  right  to  the  fountain  head 

And  asks  and  asks,  "  Wot's  zat?  " 


We  all  are  Shortems  larger  grown, 

Who  roam  with  curious  eye, 
And  when  we  cease  to  say,  "  WThat's  that?  " 

Why,  then  it's  time  to  die. 
Life's  baffling,  endless  mystery — 

We  wonder  much  thereat ; 
Before  the  riddle  of  the  world 

We  only  say,  "  What's  that?  " 


SHORTEM'S   QUESTION.  181 


The  sages  of  the  elder  world, 

The  thinkers  of  to-day, 
All  ask  young  Shortem's  question  in 

The  same  old  curious  way. 
A  million  worlds  whirl  round  their  view, 

They  wonder  much  thereat ; 
They  stand  in  the  immensities 

And  only  ask,  "  What's  that?  " 

The  mighty  serial  goes  on 

With  wonders  manifold, 
The  story  of  the  universe, 

Will  never  all  be  told. 
And  through  the  great  eternal  years 

We'll  wonder  much  thereat, 
Forever  and  forever  ask, 

"What's  that?  what's  that?  what's  that?" 


TELL  IN'    WHAT  THE   BABY  DID. 

IN  the  cosy  twilight  hid, 
Tallin'  what  the  baby  did, 
Sits  Matilda  every  night, 
'Twixt  the  darkness  an'  the  light, 
Tells  me  in  her  cutest  way 
All  the  hist'ry  of  the  day, 
Gives  me  all ;  leaves  nothin'  hid, 
Tellin'  what  the  baby  did. 


Beats  the  whole  decline  an'  fall 
Of  the  Roman  Empire.     Gol ! 
William  Shakspeare  never  hed 
Cuter  thoughts  than  baby  said, 
An'  he  hez,  to  sing  his  thoughts, 
Sweeter  words  than  Isaac  Watts. 
'Tildy,  she  leaves  nothin'  hid, 
Tellin'  what  the  baby  did. 


Pooty  hard  schoolmarm  is  fate 
To  her  scholars,  small  an'  great ; 
I  hev  felt  upon  my  han' 
Tingle  of  her  sharp  rattan ; 
But  she  pities  our  distress, 
An'  she  gives  a  glad  recess 
When  Matilda  sits,  half  hid, 
Tellin'  what  the  baby  did. 


T ELLIN'    WHAT    THE   BABY  DID.  183 


Trudge  off  with  my  dinner  pail 
Every  mornin'  without  fail ; 
Work,  with  hardly  time  for  breath  ; 
Come  home,  tired  half  to  death ; 
But  I  feel  a  perfect  rest 
Settle  down  upon  my  breast, 
Settin',  by  the  twilight  hid, 
Hearin'  what  the  baby  did. 

Sometimes  I  cannot  resist, 
An'  I  shake  my  doubled  fist 
In  the  face  of  fate  and  swear, 
"You  don't  treat  a  fellow  fair  !  " 
Then,  when  I  go  home  at  night, 
My  whole  system  full  of  fight, 
'Tildy,  she  sits  there,  half  hid, 
Tellin'  what  the  baby  did. 

Then  I  jest  make  up  with  fate, 
An'  my  happiness  is  great ; 
But  if  fate  should  lay  its  han' 
On  that  baby,  understan', 
Through  the  worl'  I'd  sulk  apart 
With  red  murder  in  my  heart ; 
If  she  sat  no  more  half  hid, 
Tellin'  what  the  baby  did. 


HUSBAND  AND  HEATHEN. 

0'ER  the  men  of  Ethiopia  she  would  pour  her  cornu 
copia, 

And  shower  wealth  and  plenty  on  the  people  of  Japan, 
Send    down  jelly   cake    and   candies    to  the  Indians  of  the 

Andes, 

And  a  cargo  of  plum  pudding  to  the  men  of  Hindustan ; 
And  she  said  she  loved  'em  so  — 
Bushman,  Finn  and  Eskimo.  — 

If  she  had  the  wings  of  eagles  to  their  succor  she  would  fly, 
Loaded  down  with  jam  and  jelly, 
Succotash  and  vermicelli, 

Prunes,    pomegranates,   plums    and  pudding,  peaches,  pine 
apples  and  pie. 


She  would  fly  with  speedy  succor  to  the  natives  of  Molucca 
With   whole    loads   of  quail  and  salmon,  and   with  tons    of 
fricassee, 

And  give  cake  in  fullest  measure 

To  the  men  of  Australasia 
And  all  the  archipelagoes  that  dot  the  Southern  sea ; 

And  the  Anthropophagi, 

All  their  lives  deprived  of  pie, 
She  would  satiate  and  satisfy  with  custard,  cream  and  mince ; 

And  those  miserable  Australians 

And  the  Borrioboolaghalians, 

She  would  gorge  with  choicest  jelly,  raspberry,  currant,  grape 
and  quince. 


HUSBAND   AND   HEATHEN, 


185 


But,  like  old  war-time  hardtackers,  her  poor  husband  lived  on 

crackers 

Bought  at  wholesale   from   a  baker,  eaten   from   the    mantel 
shelf; 

If  the  men  of  Madagascar 

And  the  natives  of  Alaska, 
Had  enough  to  sate  their  hunger,  let  him  look  out  for  himself. 

And  his  coat  had  but  one  tail 

And  he  used  a  shingle  nail 
To  fasten  up  his  "  gallus  "  when  he  went  out  to  his  work  ; 

And  she  used  to  spend  his  money 

To  buy  sugar  plums  and  honey 
For  the  Terra  del  Fuegian  and  the  Turcoman  and  Turk. 


THE  RATTLE  OF  THE  DOLLAR. 

TT7  HE  air  it  tastes  like  nectar  oozed  from  heaven's  own 

laboratory, 
And  the  sunshine  falls  like  ointment  on  the  forehead 

of  a  king, 
When  a  man  feels  in  his  pocket,  flushed  with  full  financial 

glory, 
And   he    hears    the    nickles  rattle,  and  hears  the  quarters 

ring- 
Though  winter  storms  assault  his  path,  and  drift  his  way  and 

block  it, 
In  his  heart  he  feels  the   sunshine  of   an  endless  summer 

time, 

For  he  listens  to  the  music  of  the  money  in  his  pocket 
To  the  rattle  of  the  dollar  and  the  jingle  of  the  dime. 
The  famous  violinists, 
And  the  fiddlers  and  cornettists, 
And  the  mighty  organ  players 
Of  every  age  and  clime, 

Make  a  slow  and  droning  music, 
Full  of  discord  and  of  jangle, 
When  you  match  it  with  the  rattle, 
With  the  rattle  of  the  dollar  and  the  jingle  of  the  dime. 


Then  the  star  of  hope  arises,  and  in  glittering  ascendance, 
It  lights  the  rugged  pathway  and  the  labyrinth  of  gloom ; 

For  we  feel  the  swelling  majesty  of  perfect  independence ; 
And  though  the  universe  is  large,  we  shout,  "  More  room  ! 
more  room  ! " 


THE   RATTLE    OF   THE   DOLLAR.  187 


The  pangs  of  penury  are  hard,  howe'er  the  sages  talk  it, 

And  poverty  is  perilous  —  the  borderland  of  crime; 
But    there's    courage  in  the  clatter  of  the  coin  within   your 

pocket, 

In  the  rattle  of  the  dollar  and  the  jingle  of  the  dime  ! 
Like  the  music  of  King  David 
On  the  dulcimer  and  taber, 
On  the  harp  whose  strings  were  many, 
In  that  old  melodious  time, 
Is  the  music  of  the  clinking 
Of  the  jolly  halves  and  quarters, 
And  the  ringing  resonant  rattle, 
The  rattle  of  the  dollar  and  the  jingle  of  the  dime  ! 

u 
And  the  time  we   hope  is  coming  when  the  millions  and  the 

masses 

May  hear  this  merry  music  with  no  interval  between ; 
Life  cease  to  be  an  endless  quest  for  meal  and  for  molasses, 

And  a  long  unanswered  problem  of  coal  and  kerosene. 
And  we   hear  it  in  the  distance  —  woe  to  him  who  tries  to 

block  it, 
Tries  to  block  the  onward  progress  of  the  struggling  march 

of  time, 

When  all  shall  hear  the  music  of  the  rattling  o.f  the  pocket, 
Hear  the  rattle  of  the  dollar  and  the  jingle  of  the  dime. 
And  the  patient  wives  and  babies 
Shall  not  starve  for  lack  of  money, 
Shall  not  dress  in  rags  and  tatters 
In  that  happy  coming  time ; 

For  the  world  shall  ring  with  music 
Of  a  billion  bulging  pockets, 
Each  one  ringing  with  the  rattle  — 
With  the  rattle  of  the  dollar  and  the  jingle  of  the  dime. 


THE   LAND    OF  NEVER  WAS. 

T  T  SPHERE  are  all  those  shining  valleys  which  we  used  to 
\  A  /  sing  and  rhyme, 

Purple    with    the    clustered    fruitage  of  the   harvest 

fields  of  time  ? 
Where   are  all  those    young    ambitions,  framed   in   rainbows, 

aureoled 

With  a  halo  mist  of  glory  woven  from  the  sunset's  gold  ? 
Gone  before  their  realization,  like  effects  without  a  cause. 
Vanished  in  the  misty  limbo  of  the  Land  of  Neverwas  ! 

* 

Where  are  all  those  toppling  castles,  turret-tipped  with  moon 
lit  glows, 

(jay  with  youths  and  laughing  maidens,  thro'  their  echoing 
porticoes? 

Where  are  those  aerial  brownstones  with  their  gargoyles  of 
red  mist, 

Touched  with  sardonyx  and  topaz  and  with  gold  and 
amethyst  ? 

They  have  floated  on  the  summer  clouds  that  never  wait  nor 
pause, 

Down  below  the  dim  horizon  of  the  Land  of  Neverwas  ! 


Where  are  all  those  golden  galleons  floating  on  the  tideless 

seas, 

With  their  sendal  sails  distended,  bound  for  the  Hesperides, 
Sailing  thro'  the  dashing  dolphins,  thro'  the  archipelagoes, 
Where  each  wafted  breeze  is  heavy  with  the  cinnamon  and 

rose? 


THE   LAND    OF  NEVERWAS. 


189 


Ah  !  their  hulks  have  turned  to  shadow  and  their  sails  have 

turned  to  guaze, 
And,   like  dream  ships,  they  have  vanished  in  the   Land  of 

Neverwas  ! 

Tis  the  purple  land  of  rainbows  on  an  island  far  away, 
None  but  little  folks  and  babies  'neath  its  fronded  branches 

»  stray ; 

Never  does  a  bird  of  passage  lind  upon  its  towering  cliff. 
But  sometimes  a  daring  poet  sees  it  from  his  dream-blown 

skiff, 

But  when  he  tries  to  sing  of  it  men  neither  heed  nor  pause? 
For  most  men  are  disbelievers  in  the  Land  of  Neverwas  ! 


W 


A   PROSPEROUS    COUPLE. 

i  ALL,  wife,  it's  fifty  years  ago  sence  you  an'  me  wuz 

tied, 
An'  we  hev  clum  the  hills  er  life  together  side  by 

side, 
How  we  hev  prospered,  hain't  we,  wife?   an'  how  well  off 

we  be  !  — 

Wen  we  wuz  spliced  we  owned  one  cow,  an'  now,  gosh,  we 
own  three. 


I  owed  five  hundred  on  this  farm,  five  hundred  dollars  then, 
But  I  hev  prospered  far  beyond  the  gen'l  run  er  men. 
A  kindly  Providence  hez  shaped  the  rough  course  of  events, 
An'  now  I  owe  four  twenty-five  an'  thirty-seven  odd  cents. 


'Twas  only  fifty  years  ago  you  only  had  one  dress, 
To  aggervate  your  beauty  and  increase  your  loveliness  ; 
Now  you've  got  t.wo   scrumptious  dresses,  an'  a    most    tre 
mendous  bonnet, 
With  a  monst'ous  horticult'ral  fair  a-flourishin'  upon  it. 


Three  chairs  wuz  in  our  sittin'-room  but  fifty  years  ago. 

But  we  hev  prospered  wonderf 'ly,  an'  now  there's  five,  you 

know. 

We've  gained  a  lamp,  a  puddin'  dish,  an  extra  yoke  er  steers, 
A  grin'stone,  an'  a  dingle  cart,  —  an'  all  in  fifty  years  ! 


HE    CAME    TO   STAY.  191 


It's  all  true  w'at  our  pastor  said,  the  worl'  moves  fast  to-day, 
An'  with  a  quick,  electric  whiz  goes  spinnin'  on  its  way; 
It  jest  goes  spinnin'  on  its  way  until  its  work  is  done,  t 

But   there's   few  spinners,  my  dear  wife,  who've  spun  ez  we 
have  spun. 


HE    CAME    TO   STAY. 

E  entered  the  shop  like  a  shaft  from  a  bow, 
And,  "Here   are   some   tickets,"  he  said,  "to  the 


And  who  are  there  here  who  proposes  to  go?  " 
"  I,"  "  I,"  cried  the  boss  and  the  journeyman  lad, 
The  sweet  girl-accountant,  the  errand-boy  bad  ; 
"I,"  "  I,"  cried  the  workmen  —  he  gave  all  he  had; 
And  a  shout  profound,  in  a  tumult  of  sound, 
Broke  over  his  glorified  head. 

"  And  here  is  a  bill  I  have  brought  to-day, 
And  who  is  the  man  I  shall  look  to  for  pay? 
I  would  like  it  cleared  up  and  out  of  the  way." 
Not  a  sound  was  made,  not  a  tone  was  heard, 
Not  a  muscle  moved,  not  a  finger  stirred, 
And  never  a  man  spake  a  single  word. 
And  stillness  sate,  like  the  presence  of  fate, 
And  a  silence  profound,  for  its  absence  of  sound, 
Was  heard  for  miles  and  for  leagues  around 
When  he  said,  "  I  will  sit  down  and  wait." 


SEBASTIAN  MO  KEY'S  POEM. 

TT7  HE  'Lantic  an'  New  England,  the  Century  an'  Harper's, 
9  Scribner's,    an'   all    the    rest    uv    'eir>,  is    all  a   set    er 

sharpers. 

Wen  they  fin'  a  son  er  genuis  an'  a  regular  ten-strike  poet, 
An'  a  close  chum  er  the  muses,  they  hain't  sense  enough  to 
know  it. 


I  writ  a  roaring  poem  once  an'  I  sent  it  to  the  'Lantic, 
Nex'  mail,  full  chisel  it  come  back  an'  nearly  driv  me  frantic. 
I  sent  it  then  to  all  the  rest  to  see  how  they  would  find  it, 
J3ut  they  with  their   durned   printed  slips  "  respectfully  de 
clined"  it. 

Wen  I  got  up  that  poem  in  a  wild  divine  afflatus, 

My   hull  brain  was  runnin'  over  liked  a  heaped-up  hill   er 

taters, 

An'  I  rushed  aroun'  permiscus-like  an'  not  at  all  partic'lar, 
With  my  coat-tails  horizontal  an'  my  hair  a  perpendic'lar. 

I  tore  aroun'  in  frenzy,  like  a  dog  that's  taken  pizen, 
I  feared  I'd  knock  the  stars  out  an'  collide  with  the  horizon, 
For  all  out-doors  warn't  big  enough  fer  ol'  Sebastian  Morey, 
For  I  could  shin  a  rainbow  way  up  to  the  streets  of  glory. 

It  come  out  in  the  turnip  patch,  an'  I,  I  seemed  to  waller 

In  an  ocean  uv  forgetfulness  until  I  couldn't  swaller, 

The  bung  to  heaven's  gret  music   box  got  loose  an'  out  it 

bounded, 
The  music  splashed  an'  spilt  itself  till  I  wuz  nearly  drownded. 


SEBASTIAN  MOREY'S  POEM. 


193 


Somehow  I  couldn't   fin'  room  enough,  I  breathed  gret  gulps 

er  glory, 

An'  all  St.  Peter's  angels  loafed  aroun'  Sebastian  Morey ; 
The   stars   wuz   makin'  music  an'  their  tones  wuz  more  than 

middlin', 
Each  leaf  er  grass  a  fiddle  string,  an'  every  breeze  a-fiddlin'  ! 


My  lips  seemed  wet  'ith  frankincense  an'  honey  mixed  with 
nectar, 

With  the  milk  of  human  kindness  thet  don't  need  no  milk  in 
spector  ; 

An'  I  felt  the  yeast  of  poetry  workin'  like  a  fiery  leaven, 

An'  my  arms  swung  roun'  the  firmament,  my  whiskers  swep' 
the  heaven. 

W'y  !  all  space  wuz  stuffed  'ith  rainbows  'ith  gold  pots  fer  me 

to  capture, 
An'  all  God's  everlastin'  hills  wuz  bustin'  into  rapture, 


194  SEBASTIAN  MOREVS  POEM. 

The  birds,  the  frogs,  the  grasshoppers,  all   sung  their  loud 

hozanner, 
An'  every  single  fores'  tree  turned  into  a  pianner. 

The  poem  took  me  like  the  cramp  :   I  felt  my  eyes  a-bright- 

nin' 
With   a  gran'  celestial  vision,   w'en  I   winked  they  spurted 

lightnin' ; 
I    grabbed    my  pencil,  crunched    my    teeth,  an'   terribly  in 

earnes' 
I  jest  threw  off  thet  poem  red-hot  from  the  fiery  furnace. 

If  there  ever  vvuz  a  poem  writ  I  hed  a  chance  to  git  it, 
All  heaven  wuz  bilin'  in  my  soul  w'en  I  cot  down  an'  writ  it, 
The  angels  tol'  me  every  word,  an'  it  would  make  me  famous 
If  every  tarnal  editor  warn't  sich  an  ignoramus. 

Wai,  let  'em  print  their  sappy  stuff,  but  I  can  do  without  it, 
I've  shet  off  my  subscription  an'  now  let  'em  squirm  about  it ; 
The  'Lantic  an'  New  England  the  Century  an'  Harper's, 
Scribner's  an'  all  the  rest  uv  'em  is  all  a  set  er  sharpers. 


THE   SHAPE    OF   THE   SKULL. 

IS  a  man  stupid,  or  brilliant  or  wise, 
Surpassingly  able  or  dull? 
It  all  depends  on  his  cranial  bumps, 

Depends  on  the  shape  of  his  skull ; 
And  there  are  some  things  that  some  men  cannot  do, 

Let  them  struggle  and  try  till  they're  dead, 
Unless  they  can  build  a  big  L  on  their  brain 

And  alter  the  shape  of  their  head. 
Then  do  not  attempt  those  impossible  feats, 

And  struggle  until  you  are  gray, 
On  tasks  for  which  you  were  never  designed, 
When  your  skull  isn't  shaped  the  right  way. 

For  the  world  is  filled  with  irrational  men 

Who  struggle  and  try  to  attain 
The  cloud-bannered  peaks  of  impossible  heights, 

Without  the  right  bulge  of  the  brain. 
For  the  plastic  skull  of  the  man  is  shaped 

By  a  fate  that  is  greater  than  he, 
And  he  must  judge  by  the  shape  of  his  head 

The  trend  of  his  destiny. 
Then  judge  by  the  fit  of  your  cranium  case, 

Don't  squander  your  powers  I  pray, 
In  reaching  for  unattainable  things 

When  your  skull  isn't  shaped  the  right  way. 


THEY  SLANT  IN  THAT  DIRECTION. 

TT7  O  tell  w'y  men  is  so  an'  so 

Is  much  too  hard  for  me, 
It  is  the  way  the  critters  grow 

Thet  makes  them  what  they  be  ; 
I  only  say  the  reason  w'y 
So  many  men  is  all  awry, 

An'  full  of  imperfection, 
Is  simply  jest  because  they  can't 
Git  any  other  kind  of  slant  — 

They  slant  in  thet  direction. 


I  do  not  try  to  make  it  plain 

W'y  men  are  proud  or  meek, 
Or  with  a  mighty  sweep  er  brain 

Or  vast  expanse  er  cheek  ; 
It  is  enough  fer  me  to  know 
It  is  the  way  the  critters  grow 

In  every  town  an'  section ; 
There  is  some  power  thet  gives  a  cant, 
Some  mighty  "skid"  thet  makes  'em  slant 

All  slant  in  thet  direction. 


An'  I  don't  blame  men  overmuch 
An'  on  their  vices  rant, 

Till  I  look  up  their  traits  an'  such 
To  fin'  the  way  they  slant ; 


THE   HEAD   AA'D    THE   HEAK'J .  197 

An'  I  won't  smite  'em  hip  an'  i'int 
Until  I  find  the  way  they  p'int, 

Nor  scold  each  imperfection  ; 
A  little  cherity  I'll  grant, 
For  men  are  bad  because  they  slant  — 

They  slant  in  thet  direction. 


THE  HEAD  AND  THE  HEART. 

TT7  AKE  yer  head  with  yer,"  says  ol'  Uncle  Joe,, 

"  Take  yer  head  with  yer  an'  heed  it ; 
Take  yer  head  with  yer  wherever  ye  go, 
Take  yer  head  with  yer,  ye'll  need  it. 

"Take  yer  heart  with  yer,"  says  ol'  Uncle  Joe, 
"  Take  yer  heart  with  yer  an'  heed  it ; 

Take  yer  heart  with  yer,  wherever  ye  go, 
Take  yer  heart  with  yer,  ye'll  need  it. 

"  Let  yer  head  and  yer  heart  talk  over  the  thing, 
An'  arger  the  case  till  they've  tried  it, 

While  you  set  in  style  like  a  judge  or  a  king, 
An'  w'en  they've  stopped  jawin',  decide  it." 


THE    TARIFF  FIEND. 

I    TALKED  to  him  of  Jupiter  and  Dian, 
The  ancient  gods  who  thronged  Olympus'  hill 

But  he  switched  off  on  duties  on  pig  iron, 

And  talked  about  McKinley's  tariff  bill. 
He  asked,  the  while  I  told  of  Troy  and  Homer, 

What  lowering  of  the  tariff  rates  would  do, 
And  what  effect  'twould  have  upon  Tacoma, 

On  Kankakee,  Mauch  Chunk  and  Kalamazoo ; 
Then  talked  about  the  duty  on  alpaca, 
On  turpentine,  and  tinfoil  and  tobacco. 


Then  I  digressed  upon  predestination, 

Talked  Scripture,  like  a  theologic  dean, 
He  asked,  if,  in  my  candid  estimation, 

There  shouldn't  be  higher  rates  on  kerosene. 
And  then  I  talked  of  poetry  and  beauty  — 

He  said  all  sections  should  together  pull, 
And  if  the  East  got  hides  exempt  from  duty, 

The  West  should  ask  a  higher  rate  on  wool ; 
And  if  the  sugar  men  should  get  a  bounty, 
So  should  the  lumberers  of  Aroostook  county. 


I  talked  of  Science  probing  earth  and  star, 

Calm  Science,  by  her  handmaid  Truth  attended 

He  said  our  present  tariff  rate  on  tar 

At  once  should  be  materially  amended. 


THE    TARIFF  FIEXD. 


199 


I  still  talked  Science,  scattering  error's  mist, 

Making  the  whole  earth  fairer  and  completer  — 

He  said  that  salt  should  go  on  the  free  list 

And  so  should  sodium,  soft  soap  and  saltpetre. 

And  then  he  talked  of  tins  and  zincs  and  coppers, 

Of  revenues  and  European  paupers. 

I  talked  of  history,  literature,  and  art, 

The  thoughts  of  most  inspired  songs  and  sagas  ; 
But  when  I  stopped  to  breathe,  he  made  a  start 

And  said  a  tax  should  go  on  rutabagas. 
I  soothed  him  with  a  sentimental  strain, 

And  told  the  joys  of  love  and  pure  affection  — 
He  said  the  rates  for  Michigan  and  Maine 

Were  not  the  rates  for  every  other  section. 
I  left  him,  and  in  smothered  wrath  went  stalking ; 
When  I  returned  next  day  he  still  was  talking. 


THE   PRINCE'S  BOW  AND  ARROWS. 

THERE  was  a  little  Prince  of  Spain 
Lived  very  long  ago, 
Who  said  the  big  horizon  — 
He  would  bend  it  like  a  bow. 
His  arrows  in  the  form  of  ships 

He'd  shoot  and  make  them  go 
To  many  undiscovered  lands 

Where  gold  and  diamonds  grow. 
And  so  this  little  Prince  of  Spain 

Longed  for  the  years  to  go 
Until  his  arm  was  strong  enough 
To  bend  his  mighty  bow. 

And  so  this  little  Prince  of  Spain, 

Like  little  boys  you  know, 
As  the  advancing  years  went  on 

Did  marvellously  grow. 
And  he  became  the  King  of  Spain 

And  made  him  ships  to  go 
To  many  undiscovered  lands 

Where  gold  and  diamonds  grow. 
His  arrows  in  the  form  of  ships 

Swung  idly  to  and  fro, 
For  though  his  arm  was  very  strong 

He  could  not  bend  his  bow. 

We  all  are  princes  of  the  blood, 

Who  build  our  ships  to  go 
To  many  undiscovered  lands 

Where  gold  and  diamonds  grow  ; 


THE   PRINCE'S   BO IV  AXD   ARROWS. 


But  still  on  old  familiar  seas 

They  wander  to  and  fro, 
And  hug  the  immemorial  shores 

Where  landward  breezes  blow. 
And  like  the  little  Prince  of  Spain, 

Who  lived  so  long  ago, 
We  have  our  arrows  ready 

But  we  cannot  bend  the  bow. 


DROP   YOUR  BUCKET   WHERE    YOU  ARE. 

OH,  ship  ahoy  !  "  rang  out  the  cry, 
"  Oh,  give  us  water  or  we  die  !  " 
A  voice  came  o'er  the  waters  far, 
"Just  drop  your  bucket  where  you  are." 
And  then  they  dipped  and  drank  their  fill 
Of  water  fresh  from  mead  and  hill ; 
And  then  they  knew  they  sailed  upon 
The  broad  mouth  of  the  Amazon. 


O'er  tossing  wastes  we  sail  and  cry 
"  Oh,  give  us  water  or  we  die  !  " 
On  high,  relentless  waves  we  roll 
Through  arid  climates  for  the  soul ; 
'Neath  pitiless  skies  we  pant  for  breath 
Smit  with  the  thirst  that  drags  to  death, 
And  fail,  while  faint  for  fountains  far, 
To  drop  our  buckets  where  we  are. 


Oh,  ship  ahoy  !  you're  sailing  on 
The  broad  mouth  of  the  Amazon, 
Whose  mighty  current  flows  and  sings 
Of  mountain  streams  and  inland  springs, 
Of  night-kissed  morning's  dewy  balm, 
Of  heaven-dropt  evening's  twilight  calm, 
Of  nature's  peace  in  earth  or  star  — 
Just  drop  your  bucket  where  you  are. 


DROP    YOUR   BUCKET    WHERE    YOU  ARE.  203 

Seek  not  for  fresher  founts  afar, 
Just  drop  your  bucket  where  you  are  ; 
And  while  the  ship  right  onward  leaps 
Uplift  it  from  exhaustless  deeps ; 
Parch  not  your  life  with  dry  despair, 
The  stream  of  hope  flows  everywhere. 
So,  under  every  sky  and  star, 
Just  drop  your  bucket  where  you  are. 


MATILDA'S  AND  NATURE'S  SPRING  CLEANING. 

1FIND  the  world,  outside  my  house,  is  often  all  awry, 
But  my  household  is  a  model  to  direct  the  planet  by, 
Excepting  in  spring  cleaning  time  —  my  home  is  then 

destroyed  — 
'Tis  made  a  primal  chaos  then,  without  a  form  and  void. 

Tis  scoured  from  the  rafter  to  the  bottom  cellar  stair  ; 
And  I,  —  I  leave  behind  all  hope  whene'er  I  enter  there ; 
For  the  washbrush,  like  a  whirlwind,  devastates  the  peaceful 

scene, 
For  Matilda  is  the  cleanest  of  the  cleanest  of  the  clean. 


But  Matilda's  just  like  Nature,  for  early  every  spring 

Does   Nature   get   her  scrub  brush  out,  her  duster  and  her 

wing ; 

With  her  mighty  soap  and  bucket  does  she  travel  all  about, 
And  swashes  through  the  universe  and  cleans  the  old  thing 

out. 


And   she   puts  up   new  lace  curtains  in  the  windows  of  the 

sky, 
Made   of  white   cloud   mixed    with    sunshine,   floating,  filmy 

tapestry, 
When  the  gorgeous  sun  at  sunset  finds  the  clouds  about  him 

curled, 
And  he  sticks  his  jewelled  hairpin  through  the  back  hair  of 

the  world. 


MATILDA'S  AND   NATURE'S  SPRING  CLEANING.      205 


And  she  takes  her  dull  brown  carpet  and  she  rips  it  from  the 

hills, 
And  she  sprays  her  floors  with  showers  till  they  soak  through 

to  the  sills ; 
Then    her    tulip-sprinkled    carpet,    with    its    background    of 

bright  green 
Spreads  she,  rich  as  is  the  floor-mat  'neath  the  high  throne  of 

a  queen. 

So,  Matilda,  whisk  your  wash-rag,  it  is  music  to  my  ears, 
And  it  beats  in  perfect  rhythm  to  the  music  of 'the  spheres, 
Reach  your  long  brush  for  the  cobwebs,  swing  it  ever  high 

and  higher, 
A  baton  that  beats  the  measure  for  the  mighty  Cosmic  Choir. 

You  are  cleaning  house  with  Nature,  you  are  stepping  to  the 

march 

To  which  the  planet  legions  trail  across  the  starry  arch. 
Though  the  table's  on  the  bureau,  and  the  whisk  broom  does 

not  cease, 
I  will  eat  my  supper  standing,  lapped  in  universal  peace. 


THE  MAN    WHO   BRINGS   UP  THE  REAR  END. 

FOLKS  watch  the  drum  major  and  say  "  see  him  come  !" 
And  the  fellow  who  plays  on  the  fife, 
And  the  rub-a-dub  man  who  beats  the  big  drum. 

And  the  bugler  who  blows  for  dear  life. 
They  go  with  the  music ;  they  march  with  the  noise  ; 

For  the  chief  in  the  van  they  all  hunt, 
There  is  smiling  of  maidens  and  shouting  of  boys, 

And  cheering  of  men  —  in  the  front. 
But  there's  never  a  cheer  that  gladdens  the  ear, 

Nor  the  shout  of  a  brother  or  friend, 
For  the  mud  spattered  man  who  has  dropped  from  the  van, 

For  the  man  who  brings  up  the  rear  end. 
Not  a  bravo  is  heard,  not  a  word,  not  a  word, 

As  they  see  him  stub  on  round  the  bend  ; 
Not  a  cheer  from  the  churls,  not  a  smile  from  the  girls, 

For  the  man  who  brings  up  the  rear  end  ! 

There  are  shouts  for  the  victor  whose  name  like  a  star, 

Rose  red  from  the  hot  clouds  of  fame, 
Thro'  the  battle  smoke  of  a  lurid  war, 

To  climb  up  the  heaven  of  fame. 
And  his  ears  are  beset  with  a  tumult  of  tongues, 

That  prate  of  the  danger  he  braved, 
With  a  chorus  of  praise  from  the  lusty  lungs 

Of  the  men  of  the  land  he  has  saved. 
But  I  sing  of  the  man  who  has  dropped  from  the  van,. 

From  the  front  he  could  never  defend, 
Who  could  never  await  the  harsh  volleys  of  fate  — 

The  man  who  brings  up  the  rear  end  ! 


THE   MAX    WHO   BRINGS    UP    THE   REAR  EXD.       207 

Then  a  good  strong  shout  in  the  rear  of  the  rout, 

And  the  brotherly  cheer  of  a  friend ; 
A  cheer  that  shall  start  from  the  core  of  the  heart, 

For  the  man  who  brings  up  the  rear  end. 

\ 

\ 

And  who  are  the  men  who  bring  up  the  rear  end  ? 

The  laggards  too  weak  to  be  great? 
Time's  water-logged  timber  too  rotten  to  mend? 

Abortions  and  weaklings  of  fate? 
Not  so  :   There  are  poets  whose  songs  are  unsung, 

And  singers  of  wonderful  tone, 
Reformers  whose  thunderous  words  might  have  stung 

To  the  roots  of  a  tottering  throne  ! 
Then  shout  your  huzzas  and  your  loudest  hurrahs, 

Until  the  loud  welkin  shall  rend  ; 
Let  your  loud  plaudits  grace  the  world-weary  face 

Of  the  man  who  brings  up  the  rear  end  ! 
Then  shout  without  fear  for  the  man  in  the  rear, 

Let  your  heaven-scaling  plaudits  ascend  ! 
Cry  aloud  !  cry  aloud  !  you  men  there  in  the  crowd  ! 

For  the  man  who  brings  up  the  rear  end  ! 

There  are  plebeian  souls  who  sit  on  a  throne, 

And  Kings  who  wear  never  a  crown  ; 
There  are  long-gowned  priests  who  are  devils  unknown, 

And  saints  in  the  frock  of  the  clown  ; 
There  are  hearts  that  are  black  'neath  the  King's  purple  vest, 

And  white  'neath  the  swain's  drilling  frock, 
And  the  laborer's  coat  may  be  armor  the  best 

For  meeting  adversity's  shock. 
Then  a  cheer  and  a  roar,  and  three  cheers  more, 

For  the  man  most  in  need  of  a  friend ; 
Good  cheer  for  the  man  who  has  dropped  from  the  van, 

The  man  who  brings  up  the  rear  end  ! 


208  WHEN   THE  LEA  VES    TURN  RED. 

Then  shout  your  cheer  right  into  his  ear, 
Let  your  voices  in  unity  blend  ; 

One  loud,  long  shout  in  the  rear  of  the  rout, 
For  the  man  who  brings  up  the  rear  end  ! 


WHEN   THE  LEAVES   TURN  RED. 

TT7  HERE  is  a  purple  peacefulness    that    covers    nature's 

features, 

Like  a  many-colored  bed-quilt  o'er  a  baby's  trundle  bed, 
Nature  covers  all  us  children,  nervous,  tired  little  creatures, 
Nervous,    tired    little    children,    whether   princes,    popes    or 
preachers ; 

When  the  leaves  turn  red. 

A  balm  that's  full  of  sleepiness  envelops  hill  and  river, 
An  air  that's  full  of  sweet  content  o'er  all  the  earth  is  spread  ; 
We  know  we  dream,  and  yet  we  pray  to  be  awakened  never, 
For  'tis  the  prayer  of  every  soul  to  dream  right  on  forever ; 
When  the  leaves  turn  red. 


UNCLE    SETH    ON   THE    CZAR. 

ITH  a  coat  uv  mail 
WTith  an  iron  tail, 
Thet  dangles  ag'in' 
His  pants  uv  tin, 

The  czar  he  walks,  with  a  rattlin'  roar, 
Like  a  yearthquake  through  er  hardware  store. 

His  boots  er  zinc 

They  clank  an'  clink 

With  a  rattlin'  peal, 

On  his  socks  er  steel ; 

Wen  he  sets  on  his  throne,  it  soun's,  by  gum, 
Like  a  tin  pan  fallin'  onto  a  drum. 

But  then,  his  shirt 

Won't  show  the  dirt, 

It's  made  of  iron 

Thet's  hard  to  pry  on, 
With  a  bosom  front  of  w'ite  steel  plate, 
Thet  a  dynamite  bomb  can't  penetrate. 

An'  wide  an'  far 

He  rules,  the  czar ; 

But  I  wouldn't  swap 

My  tater  crop, 

An'  the  luv  of  little  Tom  an'  his  ma, 
Fer  the  hull  wide  kingdom  uv  the  czar. 


THEN  AG'IN— 

3IM  BOWKER,  he  said  ef  he'd  had  a  fair  show, 
And  a  big  enough  town  for  his  talents  to  grow, 
And  the  least  bit  assistance  in  hoein'  his  row, 

Jim  Bowker,  he  said, 

He'd  filled  the  world  full  of  the  sound  of  his  name, 
An'  clim  the  top  round  in  the  ladder  of  fame  ; 
It  may  have  been  so  ; 

I  dunno ; 

Jest  so  it  might  been, 
Then  ag'in  — 


But  he  had  tarnal  luck — everythin'  went  ag'in  him, 

The  arrers  er  fortune  they  allus  'ud  pin  him  ; 

So  he  didn't  get  no  chance  to  show  off  what  was  in  him, 

Jim  Bowker  he  said, 

Ef  he'd  had  a  fair  show,  you  couldn't  tell  where  he'd  come, 
An'  the  feats  he'd  a-done,  and  the  heights  he'd  a-clumb  — 

It  may  have  been  so  ; 
I  dunno ; 

Jest  so  it  might  been, 
Then  ag'in  — 

But  we're  all  like  Jim  Bowker,  thinks  I,  more  or  less  — 
Charge  fate  for  our  bad  luck,  ourselves  for  success, 
An'  give  fortune  the  blame  for  all  our  distress, 

As  Jim  Bowker,  he  said. 

If  it  hadn'  been  for  luck  an'  misfortune  an'  sich, 
We  might  a-been  famous,  an'  might  a-been  rich, 


THE    VOICE. 


It  might  be  jest  so  ; 

I  dunno  ; 
Jest  so  it  might  been, 

Then  ag'in  — 


THE    VOICE. 

IN   the  silence  of  the  desert  and  the  thunder  of  the  shore, 
In  the  lonesome  midnight  watches,  in  the  market's  loud 

uproar, 
Comes   the  nameless  voice    whose    music    soundeth  on    for- 

evermore. 

Giving  strength  to  all  aweary,  giving  hope  when  life  is  dreary  ; 
Giving    fervor    to    our  dullness,    giving   patience,  peace  and 
power. 

Tis  the  song  the  singer  sings  not,  but  the  song  he  hopes  to 

sing ; 
'Tis  the  word  the  prophet  brings  not,  but  the  word  God  bade 

him  bring  — 

But  its  import  is  too  heavenly  for  human  uttering. 
Hence  the   south  wind's  sounding  motion,  and  the  surf-wash 

of  the  ocean, 
And  the  pine's  moan  on  the  mountains  is  its  fitting  rendering. 


NO  SHOW. 

"~T  OE  BEAL  'ud  set  upon  a  kaig 
(5)1         Down  to  the  groc'ry  store  an'  throw 

One  laig  right  over  t'other  laig, 
An'  swear  he'd  never  had  no  show ; 
"Oh  no,"  said  Joe, 
"  Hain't  hed  no  show."- 
Then  shift  his  quid  to  t'other  jaw, 
An'  chaw,  an'  chaw,  an'  chaw,  an'  chaw. 


He  said  he  got  no  start  in  life, . 

Didn't  get  no  money  from  his  dad, 
The  washin'  took  in  by  his  wife 
Earned  all  the  funds  he  ever  had  ; 
"  Oh  no,"  said  Joe, 
"  Hain't  hed  no  show."- 
An'  then  he'd  look  up  at  the  clock, 
An'  talk,  an'  talk,  an'  talk,  an'  talk. 


"  I've  waited  twenty  year,  —  le's  see  — 

Yes,  twenty- four,  an'  never  struck, 
Altho'  I've  sot  roun'  patiently, 
The  fust  tarnashion  streak  er  luck. 
Oh  no,"  said  Joe, 
"  Hain't  hed  no  show."- 
Then  stuck  like  mucilage  to  the  spot, 
An'  sot,  an'  sot,  an'  sot,  an'  sot. 


NO   SHOW. 


215 


"  I've  come  down  regerler  every  day 
For  twenty  years  to  Piper's  store  ; 
I've  sot  here  in  a  patient  way, 

Say,  hain't  I,  Piper?"   Piper  swore, 
"  I  tell  yer,  Joe, 
Yer  hev  no  show, 

Yer  too  dern  patient,"  —  ther  hull  raft 
Jest  laffed,  an'  laffed,  an'  laffed,  an'  laffed 


THE    GLABBERGASTIKONIAK. 

OLD  crazy  Kate  roams  through  the  hills 
Where  all  the  rocks  are  dumb, 
And  to  the  streams  and  silent  woods 
Tells  of  the  wrath  to  come. 
She  cries,  "  Each  heart  shall  break  with  grief 

And  every  soul  shall  groan, 
When  the  Glabbergastikoniak 
Shall  come  unto  his  own. 


"  And  then  shall  laughter  turn  to  tears, 

And  honey  turn  to  gall, 
The  blackness  of  eternal  night 

Shall  then  be  over  all ; 
And  in  a  starless  wilderness 

Each  soul  shall  walk  alone, 
When  the  Glabbergastikoniak 

Shall  come  unto  his  own. 


•"  Give  ear,  give  ear,"  cries  crazy  Kate, 

"  The  time  is  drawing  near 
When  all  the  mountains  of  the  world 

Shall  reel  and  quake  with  fear, 
And  men  who  rail  and  scoff  and  laugh 

Shall  gnash  their  teeth  and  groan, 
When  the  Glabbergastikoniak 

Shall  come  unto  his  own." 


THE    GLABBEKGASTIKONIAK.  217 

So  Kate  proclaims  the  phantom  wild 

Her  jangled  brain  has  reared. 
But  her  Glabbergastikoniak 

Has  never  yet  appeared. 
But  still  she  waits  the  coming  time, 

There  in  the  wilds  alone, 
When  the  Glabbergastikoniak 

Shall  come  unto  his  own. 


We  rear  our  phantoms  of  the  mind, 

Strange,  shadowy  shapes  of  fear, 
Our  Glabbergastikoniaks 

Are  ever  drawing  near. 
But  every  morn  the  sun  breaks  forth, 

The  night's  dark  mists  uproll, 
\Ve  see  no  more  the  forms  that  vexed 

The  twilight  of  the  soul. 


And  men  pursuing  beckoning  fears 

O'er  phantom  moors  and  fells, 
Have  pictured  awful  judgment  days 

And  lurid  burning  hells  ; 
But  as  the  world  wheels  into  light 

This  truth  is  understood  : 
The  universe  is  always  safe, 

For  God  is  always  good. 


And  lapped  in  the  eternal  law 
There's  no  such  thing  as  fear, 

Our  Glabbergastikoniaks 
Will  never  more  appear. 


2l8 


SWEETS  FOR    THE   SWEET. 


Sail  forth  serene  into  the  dark, 
Exultant,  fearless,  free, 

The  Glabbergastikoniak 
Shall  never  come  to  thee. 


SWEETS  FOR    THE   SWEET. 


0H,  these  rondeaus  and  triolets  are  pretty  as  violets, 
They're  dainty,  artistic  and  neat ; 
They're  Gallic,  Parisian,  and  pinks  of  precision, 
And  veritable  sweets  for  the  sweet. 
They  give  a  soft  pleasure  to  young  men  of  leisure  — 

Those  beautiful  feminine  men  — 
Who  on  literature's  border  crochet  and  embroider, 

And  do  "  fancy-work  "  with  the  pen. 
Their  sapless  aridities,  their  dry  insipidities, 

In  statuesque  beauty  are  wrought, 

But  'twould  be  unconventional  to  express  an  intentional 
Wilful  original  thought. 


BEGGARS   OR  PEDLERS  ALLOWED. 


O  beggars  or  pedlers  allowed  in  here  !  " 

If  I  were  a  rich  man,  and  king  of  the  mart, 
wouldn't  have  that  phrase  on  my  doorposts  appear, 
To  notify  men  of  my  hardness  of  heart. 


If  I  were  a  rich  man,  a  beggar  would  be 

That  man,  of  all  others,  my  notice  to  court ; 

The  one  wreck  to  whom,  in  my  sun-lighted  sea, 
To  throw  out  my  tow-line,  and  drag  into  port. 


And  the  pedler,  I'd  feel  he  and  I  were  a  pair  : 

For  how  does  a  pedler  differ  from  me?  — 
From  me,  with  my  warehouses  towering  in  air? 

I'm  a  pedler  myself  slightly  larger  than  he. 

All  merchants  are  pedlers,  who  barter  and  strain, 

Some  with  stores  for  their  goods,  some  with  goods  on  thei 
backs ; 

All  hucksters  and  hawkers,  all  crying  for  gain. 
And  differing  only  in  size  of  their  packs. 

If  I  were  a  big  pedler,  peddling  my  wares 

From  a  two-acre  storehouse,  eight  stories  high, 

I  wouldn't  kick  the  small  pedler  over  my  stairs, 
For,  perchance,  he's  as  honest  a  pedler  as  I. 


POEMS  BY  SPECIALISTS. 


JUNE. 

BY    A    FARMER. 


JJl 


HE  breachy  year  has  hawed  and  geed 

Through  rain,  and  hail,  and  snow. 
But  now  plump  in  a  bank  of  flowers 
The  driver  hollers  "  whoa  !  " 


The  months,  like  wild,  unruly  steers 
Have  pranced  through  snow  and  mud, 

But  June  is  like  a  peaceful  cow 
Who  calmly  chews  her  cud. 

She  stands  there  while  a  deathless  grace 

Beams  from  her  lustrous  eyes, 
While  round  her  hum  the  honey  bees, 

And  flit  the  butterflies. 

Oh,  gentlest  mooly  of  the  year, 
Thy  charms  too  soon  shall  cease, 

/our  luscious  butter  of  content, 
Your  milk  of  perfect  peace  ! 

WINTER. 

BY    AN    ACTOR. 

THE  snow-flakes  filling  all  the  air 

Fall  slowly  all  the  day, 
Like  programmes  dropped  by  gallery  gods 

Down  on  to  the  parquet ; 


POEMS  BY  SPECIALISTS. 


The  leafless  branches  cracking  loud 

Above  the  tempest's  roar 
Sound  like  the  beat  of  countless  hands 

That  call  for  an  encore. 

The  Storm  King  down  the  wintry  blast 

In  mighty  paces  glides, 
In  tragic,  histrionic  steps, 

Like  Henry  Irving's  strides  ; 
The  snow  upon  the  frozen  ground 

Is  lying  deep  and  thick, 
White  as  an  actress'  pallid  face, 

Who  eateth  arsenic. 

SPRING. 

HY    A    PHYSICIAN. 

BY  bursting  buds  I  diagnose, 

And  by  the  birds  that  sing, 
And  by  the  mild  balsamic  air, 

The  symptoms  of  the  Spring. 
The  clouds,  like  generous  allopaths, 

Pour  down  their  drastic  doses 
To  swell  the  germs  of  bud  and  spray 

And  the  incipient  roses. 

Winter,  that  ailment  of  the  year, 

With  care  I  think  will  leave  her, 
But  oft  returns  again,  much  like 

An  intermittent  fever. 
With  sun  baths  and  with  shower  baths 

Let  the  frail  Spring  resist  him 
Till  she  has  time  to  expurgate 

The  ailment  from  her  system. 


222  POEMS  BY   SPECIALISTS. 

NEW    YEAR'S. 

BY  A  PRINTER. 

THE  years  pass  on  in  rapid  flight  — 

Time  neither  sleeps  nor  nods ; 
They  come  like  frequent  paragraphs, 

All  interspersed  with  quads. 
The  days  drop  in  like  well-filled  lines, 

The  nights  like  "  leads"  are  thick, 
Old  time  is  standing  at  his  "  case," 

And  filling  up  his  "  stick." 

And  now  he  takes  another  "  take," 
.  A  copy  all  unread, 
Which  fate,  like  a  stern  editor, 

Before  his  gaze  has  spread. 
So,  let  the  years  pass  on  and  on, 

Through  sunshine  and  through  storms, 
Until  the  foreman  calls  the  hour 

For  "locking  up  the  forms." 

COMING   OF   WINTER. 

BY   A   CARPENTER. 

THE  dead  leaves  rustle  from  the  bough 

Like  shavings  from  a  plank ; 
Each  tree  stands  mortised  in  the  grouna., 

And  lifts  its  moveless  shank  ; 
Each  limb,  a  rafter  cold  and  bare. 

The  heartless  blast  receives,  — 
No  clapboards  of  fair  fruits  and  flowers, 

No  shingles  of  green  leaves. 

The  mallets  of  the  driving  sleet 
Descend  with  sturdy  blows, 

And  thro'  the  rafters  of  the  sky 
Like  sawdust  fall  the  snows; 


POEMS   BY  SPECIALISTS.  223 


The  vvoodchuck  in  his  chiseled  hole 

In  torpid  sleep  is  curled  : 
The  storm  king  with  his  mighty  skid 

Is  shaking  up  the  world. 

AX    EARLY    FROST. 

BY    A    BARBKR. 

THE  grass,  like  whiskers  on  the  earth, 

Was  waving  fair  and  free  ; 
The  tufted  moss  grew  on  the  rocks 

Much  like  a  French  goatee  ; 
The  garden  smiled  beneath  mine  eye 

Thro'  all  the  livelong  hours, 
And  lifted  toward  the  summer  sky 

It's  sweet  moustache  of  flowers. 

But  ah  !   the  cruel  frost  came  down 

Where  those  sweet  flowerets  grew, 
And  lathered  all  the  landscape  o'er 

With  its  cold,  white  shampoo  ! 
So  Time's  keen  razor  shaves  us  all ; 

By  our  wild  prayers  unvexed 
He  stands  and  hones  his  gleaming  edge, 

And  sternly  murmurs  "  Next  "  ! 

WINTER. 

BY    A    MASON. 

THE  ice  has  plastered  o'er  the  lake 

With  plastering  smooth  and  thick, 
The  hoar  frost  sticks  upon  the  grass 

Like  mortar  on  a  brick. 
Up  the  steep  ladder  of  the  year 

Does  toiling  winter  go, 
And  bends  beneath  his  heay  load, 

His  hod  of  ice  and  snow. 


224  POEMS  BY  SPECIALISTS. 

With  smoothing  trowel  in  his  hand 

He  makes  the  snow  walls  shine, 
And  the  white  polished  lakelet's  breast 

He'll  quickly  kalsomine. 
With  bricks  of  hail  and  hair  of  sleet 

His  masonry  is  wrought, 
And  down  the  storm  blast's  echoing  path 

He  yells,  "  More  mort,  more  mort  !  " 

WINTER. 

BY    A    LAWYER. 

A  HEARTLESS  lien  upon  the  year 

Is  held  by  winter  hoar, 
A  mortgage  and  a  heartless  lien 

As  told  hereinbefore. 
Bright  summer  now  is  dispossessed, 

No  more  her  face  entrances, 
Gone  with  her  chattels  and  effects, 

And  her  appurtenances. 

Yes,  summer  gives  a  quit-claim  deed 

Of  all  her  rosy  dower, 
A  well-attested  bill  of  sale 

Of  fountain,  fruit  and  flower  — 
Of  all  her  earthly  goods,  to  wit : 

Buds,  leaves,  streams,  held  by  her, 
And  winter  is  appointed  heir 

And  sole  executor. 


THINGS    THAT  DIDN'T   OCCUR. 

T  'YE  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  ain't  nothin'  true, 
An'  nothin'  tells  such  monstrous  lies  as  school-books  uster 

do. 

Columbus  found  this  country  out,  the  schoo'-books  uster  state  ; 
But  now  they  say  he  landed  here  four  hundred  years  too  late. 
A  chap  named  Ericson  deserves  the  fame  of  the  event, 
An'  poor  Columbus'  voyages  were  much  too  subsequent ; 
An'  so  I  say  the  very  things  that  make  the  greatest  stir, 
An'  the  most  interestin'  things,  are  things  that  didn't  occur. 

An'  now  they  say  that  Cap'n  Kidd  tried  hard  to  live  upright, 
An'  that  he  had  no  pirate  gold  he  uster  hide  at  night. 
But  my  old  school-books  uster  say  he  roamed  the  Spanish  main, 
An'  murdered  crews,  an'  stole  their  gold,  an'  then  sailed  home 

again. 

But  now  they  say  he  lived  upright  by  honor's  rigid  rule, 
An'  good  enough  to  run  a  bank  or  lead  a  Sunday  school. 
An'  so  I  say  the  very  things  that  make  the  greatest  stir, 
An'  the  most  interestin'  things,  are  things  that  didn't  occur. 

A  chap   named   Shakespeare  writ  so  much,  long  pomes  an' 

plays  an'  verses, 

The  school-books  said  he'd  fame  enough  to  fill  two  universes ; 
They  said  his  writings  were  way  up,  away  beyond  compare, — 
I  kinder  galloped  through  'em  once  an'  thought  'em  purty 

fair  ;  — 

An'  now  they  say  he  didn't  write  because  he  had  no  brains, 
An'  say  he  hardly  knew  enough  to  come  in  when  it  rains. 
An'  so  I  say  the  very  things  that  make  the  greatest  stir, 
An'  the  most  interestin'  things,  are  things  that  didn't  occur. 


AN  ECONOMICAL   MAN. 

«E  lived  on  thirteen  cents  a  day,  — 
Ten  cents  for  milk  and  cracker, 
One  cent  for  dissipation  gay, 
And  two  cents  for  tobacco ; 
And  if  he  wished  an  extra  dish 
He'd  take  his  pole  and  catch  a  fish. 

And  if  his  stomach  raised  a  war 
'Gainst  this  penurious  habit, 

He'd  go  and  kill  a  woodchuck,  or 
Assassinate  a  rabbit ; 

And  thus  he'd  live  in  sweet  content 

On  food  that  never  cost  a  cent. 


And,  that  he  might  lay  by  in  bank 

The  proceeds  of  his  labor, 
He'd  happen  round  at  meals,  the  crank  ! 

And  dine  upon  his  neighbor  ! 
And  then  he'd  eat  enough  to  last 
Until  another  day  had  passed. 

He  bought  nor  pantaloons  nor  vest, 

Nor  rich,  expensive  jacket ; 
He  had  one  suit  —  his  pa's  bequest  — 

He  thought  would  "  stand  the  racket." 
He  patched  it  thirty  years,  'tis  true, 
And  then  declared  'twas  good  as  new. 


A  A-  ECONOMICAL    MAN. 


He  owned  but  one  suit  to  his  back, 
And  minus  cuffs  and  collars. 

He  died,  and  left  his  nephew  Jack 
Nine  hundred  thousand  dollars  ! 

And  Jack  he  run  this  fortune  through 

And  only  took  a  year  or  two. 


227 


SHAKESPEARE'S    GHOST   TO   IGNATIUS 
DONNELLY. 

T"^OW,  here  comes  one  Ignatius  Donnelly 

I    Hath  writ  a  book  wherein  he  proves,  good  faith  ! 
(Q   I  writ  me  not  the  plays  which  bear  my  name 
And  make  such  noise  and  romage  through  the  world. 
Marry  !  good  sir,  in  faith  thou  hast  embarked 
Upon  an  enterprise  with  stomach  in  't. 

Now,  prithee,  boy,  lend  me  awhile  thine  ear : 
Perchance,  so  poor  a  man  as  Shakespeare  is, 
Herding  with  fellows  of  the  baser  sort ;  — 
With  Homer,  Aristophanes,  and  all 
Th'  ignoble  motley  of  the  muses'  train. 
The  jigging  poets  of  Apollo's  rout, 
May  yet  find  favor  in  thy  baleful  eyes. 

Alack  !  good  sir,  you  paint  me  forth  a  clown, 

A  vulgar  fellow,  an  unlettered  swain, 

A  usurer,  extortioner,  and  rake  — 

The  multiplying  villainies  of  Nature 

Mantle  my  record  like  a  standing  pool  ! 

By  cock  and  pye,  sir,  you  protest  too  much  ! 

The  fleshy  vessel  which  held  Shakespeare  in 
Mayhap  was  made  of  crude  and  .earthy  stuff; 
And  you  say  right,  Ignatius,  writ  no  plays, 
And  heard  no  music  of  the  choiring  spheres. 
But,  know,  this  playwright  had  a  wanton  fay 
Who  told  him  tales  of  most  exalted  heaven 
And  of  the  lowest  deep.     Aye,  there's  the  rub  .r 


HOT    WEATHER   PHI  I.  OSOr/I ) '.  229 


He  made  Will  Shakespeare,  coarse,  unlettered  hind, 
Wise  with  a  wisdom  that  ye  wot  not  of. 

This  fay,  this  Puck,  this  nimble  Ariel, 

Told  tales  that  Francis  Bacon  never  heard. 

Go  to  !   Ignatius,  get  thee  to  thy  rest. 

Pillow  the  temples  of  thy  ciphering  head 

On  the  black  waters  of  oblivion. 

But  Shakespeare's  plays,  good  sir,  some  several  years 

Shall  yet  be  read,  methinks.  by  divers  men. 


HOT    WEATHER   PHILOSOPHY. 

"|       ET  us  sail  on  our  way,  free  from  sorrow's  embargo, 
f3  As  content  with  ourselves  as  a  man  from  Chicago. 

Let  us  feel  our  best  day,  the  one  freest  from  sorrow, 
Is  the  day  after  yesterday,  just  'fore  to-morrow. 
Though  'tis  hot  enough  here  let  us  think  how  much  drearier 
Is  the  'glomerate  mass  of  earth's  molten  interior ; 
Though  'tis  hot  enough  here,  let  us  cool  our  red  faces 
By  the  thought  of  the  cold  in  the  interstellar  spaces ; 
Though  we're  lurid  and  red  as  a  furnace-burnt  ember, 
Let  us  think  of  the  snow-drifts  and  ice  of  December; 
Though  Sol  in  his  fervor  grows  stronger  and  stronger 
Yet  the  sun  will  freeze  up  in  ten  million  years  longer; 
Though  the  sun  through  the  heavens  rides  his  fiery  bicycle 
In  a  few  million  years  he'll  be  cold  as  an  icicle. 
So  let  us  rejoice  at  the  grand  consummation, 
And  grow  happy  and  frigid  in  anticipation. 


LINES. 

Read   at   the   Beta  Theta  Pi  National  Convention,  at  Wooglin-on-Chautauqua,  the 
evening  of  August  4,  1892. 

T  UST  why  this  event  should  be  reckoned  completer 
Q  \     With  a  solemn  old  bard  to  address  you  in  metre, 

And  why  he  should  read  you  a  metrical  lecture, 
This  solemn  old  bard  has  no  means  of  conjecture. 
But  since  it  so  happens  the  good  boys  of  Beta 
Are  thirsting  for  verse  and  are  wilting  for  metre, 
And  are  lonesome  and  lorn  as  a  man  who  is  single, 
Till  their  bachelor  prose  has  been  married  to  jingle, 
My  mill  has  ground  out,  with  its  old  imperfections, 
Some  sober  and  somnolent-solemn  reflections. 


As  swift  years  go  by  and  life's  ripe  apple  mellows, 

Our  memory  reverts  to  young  days  with  "  the  fellows," 

When  we,  with  the  ladder  supplied  by  the  college, 

Tried  to  climb  the  top  limb  of  the  old  tree  of  knowledge. 

When  we  dug,  as  the  farmer  will  dig  the  potato, 

For  the  tuber  of  thought  in  the  rich  soil  of  Plato ; 

When  we  strolled  'neath  the  sunrise,  and  each  a  glad  roamer 

Through  the  dewy  demesne  of  that  morning  bard,  Homer; 

Took  one  gill  of  Homer  (and  raised  no  loud  clamor) 

Diluted  with  infinite  gallons  of  grammar. 

And  the  thought  will  arise,  and  it's  often  repeated, 

In  that  classical  dram  we  were  wofully  cheated. 

There  were  many  deep  bards  and  fine  poets,  they  tell  us, 

And  sages  revered  in  that  old  land  of  Hellas, 

But  we  felt  not  the  spell  of  their  deep  necromancy, 

The  charm  of  their  wisdom,  or  the  fire  of  their  fancy, 


BETA    THETA   PI   CONVENTION.  231 

For  all  we  could  do  was  to  stand  up  and  stammer 
Some  formula-phrases  of  pitiful  grammar. 
While  we  ate  the  peel  of  our  syntax  potato 
We  missed  all  the  soul  and  the  genius  of  Plato ; 
While  we  fed  upon  crusts,  like  a  tramp  and  a  roamer, 
We  missed  the  white  bread  in  the  pantries  of  Homer. 

There  were  thinkers  who  lived  by  the  sunlit  Egean, 

Who  soared  through  the  blue  of  thought's  high  empyrean  ;. 

And  we,  like  bold  fledglings,  were  eager  to  follow  — 

For  the  gray  mountain  eagle  is  chased  by  the  swallow  — 

But  we  never  could  chase  these  serial  whizzers 

For  our  wings  were  all  clipped  by  grammatical  scissors. 

Then  let  every  Beta  lad  take  his  small  hammer 

And  smite,  without  pity,  this  monster  of  grammar. 

Let  us  get  at  the  pith  of  the  marrow  of  the  ages  : 

Let  us  get  at  the  core  of  the  soul  of  the  sages ; 

Let  us  find  the  world's  heart  in  its  central  pulsations ; 

Let  us  search  for  the  thought  that  has  moulded  the  nations  ; 

Let  us  seek  for  the  spirit,  strong,  vital  and  pure, 

That  lives  in  the  heart  of  all  true  literature  ; 

Let  us  seek  men  to  teach  us  its  grace  and  its  glamour, 

And  shun  the  prim,  pitiful  peddlers  of  grammar. 

But,  in  spite  of  the  heavy,  light- darkening  blinders, 

Swathed  over  our  eyes  by  the  dull  gerund-grinders ; 

In  spite  of  the  roots  of  the  higher  mathematics  — 

When  we  wished  we  were  girls  and  could  cry  at  quadratics, — 

We    revert  to    those    times   when    young    hope    swelled  our 

bellows, 
And  our  hearts  beat  with  joy  as  we  think  of  the  fellows  ! 

The  fellows  of  Beta  —  our  life  seems  completer 
When  we  think  of  those  days  and  the  fellows  of  Beta. 


232  BETA    THETA   PI  CONVENTION. 

And  now,  when  we  do  anything  that  is  clever, 
And  deem  that  we  stand  on  the  heights  of  endeavor, 
We  feel  that  mankind  should  announce  it  and  show  it, 
And,  foremost  of  all,  let  the  Beta  boys  know  it. 
When  we're  made  selectman  or  a  highway  surveyor, 
Are  elected  town  clerk,  or  are  mentioned  for  mayor, 
When  we've  published  a  pamphlet,  or  written  a  ditty, 
Or  served  for  three  years  on  the  high  school  committee, 
Let  the  trumpets  of  fame  o'er  the  wide  planet  blow  it  — 
But,  foremost  of  all,  let  the  Beta  boys  know  it. 

But  when  we  are  weak  and  our  life  seems  a  failure, 

And  the  world  is  a  desert  from  here  to  Australia ; 

When  we're  sentenced  to  jail  for  some  crime  of  foul  nature, 

Or  are  members  elect  of  our  state  legislature  — 

Let  the  big  world  at  large  all  derisively  jeer  of  it, 

But,  for  love  of  your  life,  let  no  Beta  boy  hear  of  it  ! 

Those  were  days  when  no  fetters  of  fortune  confined  us, 
When  we  gazed  on  the  infinite  ocean  behind  us, 
And  gazed  on  the  mist-bannered  mountains  before  us, 
While  Hope,  o'er  their  summits  triumphantly  bore  us. 
Fate  said,  "  Rule  the  earth  and  dethrone  the  usurpers," 
•And  each  of  us  answered,  "  I'm  here  for  that  purpose." 
Our  consciousness  told  us  the  crazy  old  planet 
Was  wobbly  and  wild,  needing  some  one  to  man  it, 
Some  wise  ruling  genius  to  guide  it  and  veer  it, 
Some  strong,  pilot  hand  to  direct  it  and  steer  it, 
Some  imperial  genius  to  keep  the  thing  steady  — 
And  each  of  us  answered,  "  I'm  ready  !  I'm  ready  !  " 

True,  when  we  were  loaded  for  bear  or  for  bison, 
We  banged  at  the  stars  or  shot  at  the  horizon, 


BETA    THETA    PI   CONVENTION. 


So  the  bison  and  bear  by  our  guns  were  ungingered, 
And  the  stars  and  horizon  are  thus  far  uninjured, 
And  the  high  heavens  are  still  by  our  bullets  unblighted, 
And  the  rivers  of  earth  still  flow  on  unignited. 

But,  if  we've  not  struck  the  high  target  we  aimed  at, 

'Tis  nothing  we  need  to  regret  and  be  'shamed  at. 

Right  here,  to  give  zest  to  this  metrical  salad 

And  point  a  good  moral,  is  given  this  ballad, 

A  fact,  and  not  a  mere  fanciful  caper, 

And  I  know  it  is  true,  for  I  read  it  i'  the  paper  — 

Says  the  cabin  boy  to  Sambo,  the  cook,  — 

And  a  tear  fell  round  and  great,  — 
''  I  won't  bear  the  yoke  of  every  ol'  poke, 

An'  take  off  my  cap  to  the  mate. 
For  I've  a  notion  the  Indian  Ocean  — 

And  he  stood  up  proud  and  free, 
"  Has  no  cabin  boy  than  is  better  than  Oi  — 

Let  him  take  off  his  hat  to  me  !  "• 

"  Hole  on,  dar,  chile,"  says  Sambo,  the  cook, 

"  An'  lean  yer  yere  to  me, 
You  ain't  no  boss  clar  way  ercross 

This  yere  hull  big  blame  sea. 
Hain't  yer  seen  it  happ'n  how  the  mate  to  the  cap'n 

Takes  off  his  hat  ?     Go  long  ! 
You's  awful  brash,  you  young  w'ite  trash, 

Jes'  larn  ware  you  belong  !  " 

'  Belay  there,  Sambo  !  "  says  the  boy  to  the  cook, 

"  Don't  get  ez  hot  ez  a  stove, 
Did  you  ever  see  it  happ'n  thet  our  ol'  cap'n 
Tips  his  hat  to  any  cove?  " 


234  BETA    THETA   PI  CONVENTION. 

"  W'y,  now  you're  wrong,"  says  Sambo.      "  Go  'long  ! 

Jump  overboard  an'  swim, 
For  he'd  be  a  Jonah  if  he  didn'  smoove  de  owner 

An   tip  his  hat  to  him  !  " 

"  Avast  there,  Sambo,"  says  the  boy  to  the  cook, 

"Your  sails  is  too  much  spread, 
The  owner's  a  stunner,  a  twenty  thousan'  tonner, 

An'  he  keeps  his  hat  on  his  head  !  " 
"  Break  off  dar,  chile  !  break  off  foh  ervvhile  ! 

Here  de  merchant  jines  de  swim, 
An'  dat's  wot's  de  marter  w'en  he  wants  his  charter, 

Den  de  cap'n  tips  to  him  !" 

"  But  the  merchant,"  says  the  boy,  "  is  a  god-on-wheels, 

A  reg'lar  tough  oP  duff!  " 
"  Laws  !  "  Sambo  said,  "  let  me  fill  yo'  head 

Wiv  some  kine  er  sense  an'  stuff! 
De  merchant's  a  seller,  a  trad'n  feller, 

An'  he  wants  to  sell,  yer  see  ! 
So  he  ben'  down  flat,  an'  he  take  off  he  hat, 

An'  he  bow  to  you  an'  me  !  " 

Haec  fabula  docet :  this  poor  fable  teaches, 
We're  all  in  one  basket,  the  same  kind  of  peaches. 
In  the  cabin,  on  deck,  where  our  station  may  happen, 
To  some  man,  or  some  men,  we  are  each  of  us  cap'n. 
And  we  sail  the  same  sea  to  a  port  far  before  us, 
With  the  same  pilot  stars  shining  placidly  o'er  us ; 
And  meet  the  same  waves,  the  same  tempest's  resistance, 
And  make  for  a  harbor  that's  far  in  the  distance. 


A    GLANCE   BEHIND   AND    AHEAD. 

[Read  at  the  decennial   supper  of  the  class  of  1882,  Brown  University,  June  21,  1892.] 

TT7  HIS  year  the  corridors  of  Fame  re-echo  through  and 

through 
With  Christopher  Columbus  and  the  class  of  '82. 

Four  hundred  years  ago  he  sailed  to  seek  a  world,  and  thus 
Ten  years  ago  we  woke  to  find  a  world  a- seeking  us. 

And  for  the  world  we  have  no  thought  but  one  of  deep  regret, 
If  it  has  bungled  in  its  search  and  hasn't  found  us  yet. 

We  feel  the  dull  world  doesn't  know  (that  lets  us  still  be  hid) 
A  good  thing  when  it  sees  it,  same  as  old  Columbus  did. 

Ten  years  ago  we  slipped  the  tight,  scholastic  collar  free  — 
But  the  river,  unignited,  still  flows  onward  to  the  sea. 

Then  we    thought    that   fate   would    meet    us   with  a  special 

hullaballoo 
With  her  hand  outstretched  to  greet  us,  —  "  Glad  to  see  ye  ! 

Howdy  do?  " 

\nd  we  thought  we  saw  the  promise  of  great  empires  in  her 

eye, 

And    she   seeking  kings   to    rule    them,  and  each  answered, 
"  Here  am  I." 

Though  we  knew  the   great   earth  wobbled   on  its   axis  as  it 

whirled, 
Still  we  thought  'twas  no  great  matter  —  we  could  reconstruct 

the  world. 


236  A  GLANCE   BEHIND   AND   AHEAD. 

(But  I'll  say  in  a  parenthesis  —  reporters  please  omit  — 
Though  we  have  begun  the  business  we  have  not  quite  finished 
yet.) 

Though  I  hate  to  make  admissions  that  detract  from  our  just 

fame, 
Still,  I  must  allow,  the  planet  seems  to  wobble  just  the  same. 

Though  we  have  not  clasped  the  Vision  that  once  crowned 

the  morning  hill 
In  the  early  forenoon  sunshine,  we  will  chase  the  Vision  still. 

Though  she  fades  into  the  distance  of  the  hazy  amethyst, 
Though  she's  aureoled  with  rainbows  and  her  garments  are 
of  mist, 

Still  she    beckons  —  we    are    coming!      See   her   right   hand 

pointing  high 
Toward  her  misty  mountains  yonder,  where  her  mighty  empires 

lie. 

And  we  follow  through  the  noontide  till  the  closing  of  the 

day, 
See,  she  beckons  —  We  are  coming  —  We  are  coming.     Lead 

the  way. 


TWO   SONGS. 

TT7  HE  spirit  that  sings  in  the  moaning  pine, 

And  has  sung  since  the  world  began, 
Is  gloomy  as  night  when  the  stars  do  not  shine, 
And  sad  as  the  heart  of  man. 

The  spirit  that  sings  in  the  laughing  brook, 

And  has  sung  since  the  world  began, 
Is  gay  as  the  joy  of  a  maiden's  look, 

And  glad  as  the  heart  of  man. 

I  lay  'neath  the  pine,  on  the  brink  of  the  brook, 

And  their  two  songs  rose  in  the  air ; 
One,  sweet  as  the  laugh  from  an  Oread's  nook, 

One,  heavy  with  sobs-of  despair. 

And  the  sad  and  the  glad  mingled  into  one  strain, 

But  made  no  dissonant  strife, 
As  the  varying  tones  of  pleasure  and  pain 

Mingle  into  the  music  of  life. 

And  I  said  :   "  Lo  !   the  song  of  the  heart  of  man, 

The  song  of  gloom  and  of  glee, 
The  song  that  has  been  since  the  world  began, 

The  song  that  ever  shall  be." 


TWO   PRAYERS. 

OUR 'minister  gets  up  to  pray  and  lets  the  spirit  flow, 
An'  tells  the  Lord  a  lot  er  things  he  thinks  He  ought  to 
know, 

Tells  Him  about  the  gover'ment,  how  politics  'ill  turn  — 
Coz  He  don't  mix  in  politics  an'  hez  no  way  to  learn. 

He  preaches  on  the  Presidunt  an'  describes  his  evil  natur', 
An'  gives  away  the  Cabinet  an'  our  venal  legislatur', 
Shows  how  corruption  festers,  an'  tells  of  things,  I  fear, 
Thet  the  Lcrd  —  they  come  so  sudden  —  will  be  surprised  to 
hear. 

He  takes  the  cyclopedy  an'  he  weaves  it  in  his  prayer, 

Sandwiched  in  with  choice  statistics  which  he  picks  up  every 
where  ; 

They  say  the  Lord  knows  everything, —  sometimes  I  uster 
doubt, 

Now  I  know  —  our  pastor  tells  him  —  thet's  the  way  he  fin's  it 
out. 

In  the  meetin'  t'other  evenin'  he  lifted  up  his  face 

An'     much    interestin'    gossip    laid    before    the    Throne    of 

Grace, 

Chunks  of  useful  information  did  h*  shrewdly  intersperse, 
Thet  would  make  the  Lord  enlightened  ez  to  all  the  universe. 

Then  Jim  Drew,  the   drunken  sailor,  jest  riz  up  there  in  the 

aisle, 
An'  though  'twas  in  a  holy  place  we  couldn't  forbear  to  smile. 


TWO  PRAYERS.  241 


But  Deacon  Briggs  he  nudged  me  hard  ;  sez  he,  "  Don't  grin 

thet  way, 
For  don't  ye  see  he's  sober,  an'  the  rascal's  goin'  to  pray." 

He  started  in  an'  sez,  "  O  Lord  !  I'm  jest  chuckful  er  sin, 
An'  there  ain't  no  place,  I  reckin,  for  yer  mercy  to  squeeze  in, 
For  I'm  jist  good  for  nothin',  an'  an  ol'  wreck  from  the  sea ; 
Take  me  —  I  ain't  wuth  takin' — but  I  give  myself  to  Thee." 

Then  he  broke  down  an'  blubbered  out,  an'  jest   set   down  to 

bawl, 
An'  then  there  came  a  loud  "Amen"  thet  near  bust  through 

the  wall ; 
We  knew  a  spark  of  heavenly  fire   hed  touched  this  earthly 

clod, 
For  his  soul  in  all  its  nakedness  had  shown  itself  to  (lod. 

There  warn't  much  learnin'  in  his  prayer,  but  yet  it  travelled 

far, 

An'  went  floatin'  up  to  glory  where  the  shinin'  angels  are  ; 
The   pastor's   prayer  so  weighted  down  'ith  riggers,  facts  and 

proof, 
Got  lodged  among  the  rafters  an'  didn't  get  beyond  the  roof. 


THE   BABY  KING    OF  SPAIN. 

MURDEROUS  plot,  of  late  laid  bare, 
Has  shocked  all  nations  everywhere, 
A  plot  hatched  in  a  madman's  brain, 
To  kill  the  baby  king  of  Spain. 
The  strong  old  Roman  hates  still  cling 
Around  the  very  name  of  King ; 
And  good  men  hope  to  see  laid  prone 
The  height  of  every  towering  throne. 
Smite  kingcraft  strong  between  the  eyes ; 
And  when  the  death-struck  monster  dies 
A  cry  of  joy  our  hearts  will  give  — 
But  let  the  little  baby  live. 

A  baby  —  king  by  right  divine, 
A  monarch  of  an  ancient  line, 
The  mightiest  in  this  world  of  ours 
Of  principalities  and  powers. 
No  conquering  captain  ever  known 
This  sturdy  king  can  disenthrone  ; 
His  throne  defended  from  all  darts 
Is  borne  upon  his  subject's  hearts. 
The  whirlwinds  of  all  wars  that  blow 
This  throne  can  never  overthrow. 
His  royal  right  all  men  confess, 
His  sovereign  strength  of  helplessness ; 
And  'tis  an  infinite  coward's  arm 
Upraised  to  do  a  baby  harm. 
Kill  kingcraft ;  it  deserves  to  die  ; 
But  pass  the  royal  baby  by  ! 


THE  BABY  KING    OF  SPAIN,  243 


Bad,  wicked  kings  have  ruled  in  Spain, 
And  wicked  kings  may  rule  again. 
Kill  kingcraft,  but  protect  the  king  — 
That  laughing,  babbling,  helpless  thing. 
Kill  kingcraft,  for  his  many  years 
Are  dark  with  stains  of  blood  and  tears.. 
And  even  now  with  laboring  breath, 
He  stumbles,  tottering,  near  to  death  ;. 
And,  for  his  crimes  in  days  gone  by 
The  grey  old  wretch  deserves  to  die ;. 
God  to  the  hand  new  strength  impart, 
That  drives  the  dagger  through  his  heart, 
And  buries  from  the  light  of  day 
This  lingering  incubus  away. 
Kill  kingcraft ;  all  men  will  forgive  ; 
Kill  him  ;  but  let  the  baby  live. 


WHEN  SHAKESPEARE   SLINGS  HIMSELF. 

I   TRIED  to  read  w'at  Shakespeare  writ 
An'  never  thought  no  great  of  it. 
I  knew  no  man  in  our  town 
Skurce  ekilled  Shakespeare  in  renown, 
But  still,  I  reckoned  all  the  time 
He  warn't  ez  smart  ez  ol'  Squire  Prime. 
Though  others  stuck  him  on  a  pole, 
I  allus  laid  him  on  the  shelf, 
Because  he  had  no  spurt  an'  soul, 
An'  never  slung  himself. 

An'  ev'ry  time  I  tried  I'd  fail 

To  make  out  either  head  or  tail, 

Or  any  heart,  or  sense,  or  soul 

To  all  his  wobblin'  rigmarole. 

No  matter  how  he'd  squirm  an'  try 

He  couldn't  come  up  to  ol'  Bill  Nye. 

An'  so  I'd  shet  the  book  again, 

An'  stick  it  up  there  on  the  shelf, 
An'  say  "  It's  plain  to  me,  it's  plain 

Thet  he  couldn't  sling  himself." 

An  elocutioner  come  down 

One  night,  last  fall,  to  our  town, 

An'  advertised  fer  sev'rul  days 

Thet  he  would  read  from  Shakespeare's  plays. 

"The  feller."  sez  I,  "is  a  chump 

To  try  to  read  from  such  a  gump. 


WHEN  SHAKESPEARE   SLINGS  HIMSELF.  245 

If  I  couldn't  write  ez  well  ez  him 

I'd  lay  myself  upon  the  shelf; 
Fer  Shakespeare  hain't  no  swing  and  vim, 

An'  he  can't  sling  himself." 

I  heered  the  elocutioner  spout, 

An'  he  just  turned  me  wrong  side  out. 

Them  words  —  like  cannon  balls  they  hit  — 

Them  words  thet  William  Shakespeare  writ. 

An'  each  word  struck  a  tender  part 

An'  landed  red-hot  in  my  heart. 

W'y,  I  clum  up  life's  highest  stair 

An'  et  from  Natur's  tip  top  shelf 
An'  heered  thet  reader  r'ar  an'  tear 

An'  Shakespeare  sling  himself ! 

W'y  Shakespeare  took  the  heart  er  man 

An'  coined  it  into  words,  I  swan. 

An'  every  word  he  coined  is  still 

Worth  more'n  a  twenty  dollar  bill. 

An'  some  words  gambol,  like  young  steers, 

An'  some  are  drippin'  wet  'ith  tears ; 

For  Shakespeare  et  the  sweetest  meat 

On  Mother  Nature's  highest  shelf, 
An'  ev'ry  day  he  went  to  eat 

An'  then  he  slung  himself! 

W'y  here's  a  man  who  waded  through 
The  drippin'  daisies  an'  the  dew, 
An'  who  in  highest  heaven  did  dwell, 
An'  wandered  through  the  lowest  hell. 
An'  he  communion  uster  hoi' 
With  God  an'  devil  in  the  soul, 


246 


WHEN  SHAKESPEARE   SLINGS  HIMSELF. 


Who  searched  his  soul  in  every  part, 

An'  ransacked  every  nook  an'  shelf, 

Who  looked  right  in  his  open  heart, 
An'  went  an'  slung  himself. 

W'en  Shakespeare  slings  himself  I  see 
How  big  a  human  soul  can  be, 
I  feel  like  claimin'  as  my  own 
The  highest  seat  aroun'  the  throne. 
W'en  Shakespeare  slung  himself,  I  say, 
Wat  angel  could  do  better,  hey? 
An'  so  we  know  we  hev  the  best, 

The  sweetest  from  the  highest  shelf, 
The  brightest,  grandest,  purtiest, 

When  Shakespeare  slings  himself ! 


THE   READY-MADE   MAN. 

gOME  sages  of  Hindustan, 
Of  eruditical  lore, 

Determined  to  make  a  ready-made  man, 
Which  had  never  been  done  before  ; 
All  this,  you  know, 
Was  some  time  ago, 
In  the  pre-historical  yore. 

So  they  mixed  their  chemicals  up 

In  a  mighty  porcelain  bowl, 

And  they  stirred  them  up  as  you'd  stir  up  a  cup 
Of  coffee  or  tea,  on  my  soul ; 
Made  a  hole  in  the  batter, 
And  set  on  a  platter, 
With  carbon  and  salt  in  the  hole. 

These  sages  of  Hindustan 

Then  poured  the  chemicals  in ; 
Their  phosphoric  acid  they  poured  from  a  pan, 
And  their  soda  and  gelatine, 
With  butyric  acid, 
To  make  the  flesh  flaccid, 
And  water  and  creatine. 

And  they  made  the  form  of  a  man, 

Organically  sound  and  complete, 
And  they  found,  these  sages  of  Hindustan, 

No  flaw  from  his  head  to  his  feet ; 


248  7 HE  READY-MADE  MAN. 


And  one  of  their  fellows 
Blew  air  from  a  bellows, 
And  the  man  leaped  up  from  his  seat. 

They'd  made  the  ready  made  man, 

But  he  was  crazy  and  wild, 
He  howled  like  a  beast  in  a  caravan, 
And  then  he  cried  like  a  child ; 
They  put  magnesia  on 
His  left  brain  ganglion 
To  make  him  reconciled. 

And  this  —  it  made  him  hum  — 
Twas  withering  flame  to  fuel 
And  they  took  chloride  of  potassium 
And  mixed  it  in  his  gruel ; 

Then  he  acted  like  a  fool 
Who  had  never  been  to  school  — 
His  idiot  groans  were  cruel. 

Then  carbon  from  the  pan, 

They  placed  beneath  his  crown  : 
Then  he  fought  like  John  L.  Sullivan, 
And  knocked  the  sages  down. 

Then  the  sages  of  Hindustan 
They  killed  the  ready-made  man 
Who  had  done  them  up  so  brown. 

My  moral  all  may  scan, 

For  it's  designed  to  show 
That  the  making  of  a  perfect  man 
Is  a  process  rather  slow  ; 
The  perfect  fellow 
Needs  time  to  mellow, 
And  plenty  of  time  to  grow. 


WALT    WHITMAN. 

BONE  has  the  savor  from  the  salt 
With  Walt. 

An  untamed  stallion,  strong  and  sure, 
He  galloped  through  our  literature  ; 
No  critic  trainer  had  the  grit 
To  tame  him  to  the  bridle  bit, 
No  rein  his  headlong  speed  could  halt, 
Unharnessed  Walt. 


A  man  of  many  a  flaw  and  fault 

Was  Walt. 

He  never  tried  to  train  his  thought 
To  blossom  in  a  flower  pot ; 
With  careless  hand  he  flung  his  seeds, 
And  some  grew  roses,  some  grew  weeds, 
And  some  rich  flowers  of  purple  blood 

Sprung  from  the  mud. 


O'er  custom's  fence,  with  easy  vault, 

Leaped  Walt. 

The  pedant's  gown  he  would  not  don, 
Nor  hold  his  pen  with  handcuffs  on. 
His  rhythm,  like  a  fetterless  sea, 
Broke  in  mad  music  and  debris 
Against  the  bowlders  of  his  age 

With  giant  rage. 


252 


WALT    WHITMAN. 


We  shall  not  find  'neath  heaven's  vault 

Another  Walt. 

He  gave  a  gift  beyond  all  pelf, 
Man's  greatest  gift  —  he  gave  himself. 
Then  bear,  with  dead  hands  on  his  breast, 
This  shaggy  old  man  to  his  rest. 
A  strong  audacious  soul  has  fled, 

Now  Walt  is  dead. 


A    TRAGIC   END. 

HE  worked  for  eight  dollars  a  week, 
So  his  prodigal  wants  were  repressed 
But  he  had  an  imposing  physique, 
Which  he  longed  to  keep  perfectly  dressed  - 
A  superb  and  commanding  physique, 

He  was  bound  to  keep  thoroughly  dressed. 

But  his  suit,  it  was  never  complete  ; 

If  he  had  an  immaculate  hat, 
And  the  daintiest  shoes  on  his  feet, 

He  would  have  a  dejected  cravat ; 
Wear  twelve-dollar  shoes  on  his  feet 

And  a  picayune  style  of  cravat. 


If  he  bought  a  cravat  that  was  new. 

Then  his  shoes  would  be  out  at  the  toes  ; 

Let  him  struggle  the  best  he  could  do, 
He'd  wear  some  undesirable  clo'es  — 

Let  him  torture  the  best  he  could  do, 
He'd  have  some  unconventional  clo'es. 


If  his  beaver  was  shiny  and  sleek, 
And  his  coat  and  his  ulster  an  fait — 

Yet  he  worked  for  eight  dollars  a  week, 
And  his  trousers  were  rusty  and  gray  — 

He  toiled  for  eight  dollars  a  week ; 

Hence  his  trousers  were  baggy  and  gray. 


254 


A    TRAGIC   END. 


But  at  last  his  whole  suit  was  complete, 
And  he  walked  forth  in  glory  and  pride, 

Well-dressed  from  his  head  to  his  feet ; 
But  that  very  same  hour  he  died  — 

Well-dressed  from  his  head  to  his  feet  — 
In  the  hour  of  triumph  he  died. 


THL    GRASS  VALE   RAILROAD. 

@RASSVALE  lay  hidden  in  the  hills  in  indolent  repose  — 
It  lay  there  like  a  snowflake  in  the  bosom  of  a  rose  — 
Against  the  mountains  on  the  East  the  East  winds 

vainly  pressed, 

And  the  mountains  stopped  the  fury  of  the  storm-burst  from 
the  West. 

But  the  Grassvale  people  waited  for  a  railroad  to  come  down 
And   tunnel   through    the   mountains   and   wind  grandly   into 

town  ; 
Through   the   weed-grown  streets    of    Grassvale    men    would 

saunter  to  and  fro, 
And  tell   how,  when  the  railroad  came,  the  little  town  would 

grow. 

Every  night   to    Durkee's   grocery  came  a  crowd  of  men  to 

talk  it, 
With   big   empires   in   their   fancy  and   two  nickels   in   their 

pocket ; 
But  the  cows  trod  down  the  dahlias  in  each   housewife's  small 

front  yard, 
And    whole    droves    of  pigs    went  rooting    down    the  village 

boulevard. 

Every  morn    the    magic   sunrise  all  the   Eastern  hills  would 

streak, 
And  God  fling  his  sunset  banner  from  the  topmost  Western 

peak, 


256  THE    GRASS  VALE  RAILROAD. 

But    moss    grew   on    the    houses    where    no    paint    had  yet 

appeared, 
As  the  face  that  has  no  beauty  is  the  first  to  raise  a  beard. 

The  chimney  of  the  old  town  hall  was  thrown  down  by  the 

rain, 
And   they  stuck  a   rusty  funnel  through  the  bottom  window 

pane ; 
At  the  Baptist  church  the  steeple  blew  off  one  tempestuous 

day, 
And  they  left   it  as  a  rendezvous  where  hens  could  go  and 

lay. 

The  great  dream  of  the  railroad  banished  their  uneasy  fears, 
Although   they  had   a   suit  of  clothes  but  once   in  thirteen 

years ; 
For  they  reasoned  when  the  railroad   should   come  winding 

down  their  way 
They  would  have  a  pair  of  trousers  almost  every  other  day. 

And  we  all  wait  for  our  railroad,  while  our  front  yards  grow 

with  thistle, 

Lie  and  listen  in  our  valley  for  the  locomotive's  whistle ; 
Yes,  we  build  up  mighty  railroads  in  our  superheated  brain, 
While  we  ought  to  climb  our  mountains  and  just  foot  it  to 

the  train. 


THE    COSMIC  POEM. 

LL  motion  is  rhythm,  says  wise  Herbert  Spencer, 
A  sage  so  immense  that  no  sage  is  immenser. 
All  the  worlds  wobble  on  with  a  rhythmical  teeter, 
And  the  universe  whirls  on  its  mystical  metre. 
The    sage    sees     the   stars,    and    their    rhythmic     orbs    sho\v 

him 
That  the  world  is  a  verse  and  the  Cosmos  a  poem. 

The  torn  sea  that  surges  with  wreck-scattered  trophies 

Beats  out  its  great  theme  in  tumultuous  strophes ; 

The  blind  winds  that  blow  from  the  caverns  of  chaos, 

Or  the  zephyrs  of  twilight  that  soothe  and  allay  us, 

The  rivers  that  leap  from  the  high  precipices 

Whose  foam-banners  wave  o'er  the  startled  abysses, 

Or     the     gay     brook     that     makes     the     long     lilies     grow 

sweeter  — 
All  these,  one  and  all,  are  a  part  of  the  metre. 

And  all  lives  are  a  poem ;   some  wild  and  cyclonic 

With  verses  of  cynical  bluster  Byronic  ; 

And  some  still  flow  on  in  perpetual  benison, 

As  perfect  and  smooth  as  a  stanza  of  Tennyson ; 

And  some  find  huge  boulders  their  currents  to  hinder 

And  are  broken  and  bent  like  the  poems  of  Pindar ; 

And  some  a  deep  base  of  proud  music  are  built  on  — 

The  calm  ocean  swell  of  the  epic  of  Milton ; 

And  some  rollick  on  with  a  freedom  completer 

In  Whitman's  chaotic,  tumultuous  metre. 


THE   COSMIC  POEM. 


But  most  lives  are  mixed  like  Shakespearian  dramas, 
Where  the  king  speaks  heroics,  the  idiot  stammers, 
Where  the  old  man  gives  counsel,  the  young  man  loves  hotly, 
Where    the    king  wears  his    crown    and   the   fool  wears    his 

motley, 

Where  the  lord  treads  his  hall  and  the  peasant  his  heather  — 
And  in  the  fifth  act  they  all  exit  together,— 
And  the  drama  goes  out  with  its  pomp  and  its  thunder, 
And  we  weep,  and  we  laugh,  and  we  listen,  and  wonder  ! 


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